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Bonk JIaIL 


Gopyiight N° 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSE 








* 


THE SPIRIT OF 
THE LEADER 


By WILLIAM HEYLIGER 


THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 
DAN’S TOMORROW 
HIGH BENTON 
HIGH BENTON—WORKER 

Fairview Series 

CAPTAIN FAIR AND SQUARE 
THE COUNTY PENNANT 
FIGHTING FOR FAIRVIEW 

St. Mary’s Series 

BARTLEY, FRESHMAN PITCHER 
BUCKING THE LINE STRIKE THREE! 

THE CAPTAIN OF THE NINE 
AGAINST ODDS OFF SIDE 

Boy Scouts Series 

DON STRONG OF THE WOLF PATROL 
DON STRONG, PATROL LEADER 
DON STRONG, AMERICAN 

Lansing Series 

JOHNSON OF LANSING BATTER UP 

QUARTERBACK RECKLESS 
FIVE YARDS TO GO THE WINNING HIT 
FAIR PLAY STRAIGHT AHEAD 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
New York London 









‘ ‘ FELLOW STUDENTS OF NORTHFIELD HIGH—’ ’ PRASKA BEGAN. 

[page 85] 





THE SPIRIT OF 
THE LEADER 


BY 

WILLIAM HEYLIGER s 

AUTHOR OF "HIGH BENTON,” "dAN*8 TO-MORROW,” 
"DON 8TRONG OF THE WOLF PATROL,” ETC. 




D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

NEW YORK : : 1923 : : LONDON 








Ih 

JrU* 

% 

c^x 


COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 



Copyright, 1922, 1923, by The Sprague Publishing Company 
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


OCT -i '23 


C1A7 59198 


v 


TO 

GORDON K. DICKINSON, M.D. 
MY FRIEND 


\ 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I. Home Room 13. 

II. The Ballot in Room 13 . 

III. The Voice of the People 

IV. “Bawler Out” and “Nimble 

Feet” . 

V. A Matter of Proper Spirit . 

VI. A Job for the Press .... 
VII. Northfield Helps Itself . 
VIII. Northfield to Northfield . 


PAGE 

1 

34 

68 

104 

136 

184 

213 

246 











THE SPIRIT 
OF THE LEADER 


CHAPTER I 


HOME ROOM 13 



AMES are peculiar things. Sometimes 
they lit—sometimes they do not. Sight 
unseen, one would have suspected that 
Jeorge Praska would be given to turning things 
over slowly in his mind, seriously and deliber¬ 
ately; a short, stocky youth with something about 
him of the football build. The speculator would 
have been right. George’s mental processes 
were dogged, not brilliant. For two years he 
had played right guard for Northfield High 
School. Opposing elevens had found him a mas¬ 
sive rock that could neither be pushed back nor 
flanked. Coaches sent their teams out with in¬ 
structions to “let that Praska alone. It’s only 
wasting a down.” 

Perry King, on the other hand, belied the 

l 


THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


promise of his name. By all the pictures that 
names suggest he should have been tall, fair¬ 
haired, dashing and magnetic. Instead he was 
thin and dark and funereal of aspect, an ungainly 
boy running mostly to gangling shanks and given 
to unexpected, impish outbursts of mischief. 

And yet, the two were friends, drawn together 
by their very contrasts. To George, slow of 
speech, Perry’s wit and flippant tongue were qual¬ 
ities as baffling as they were sometimes alluring. 
To scrawny Perry, George’s solid strength was 
something to be worshipped as personally unat¬ 
tainable. Perry referred to the football guard 
as “the Northfield ox.” George called Perry 
“the human string-bean.” They got along fa¬ 
mously, as opposites sometimes do. 

That summer carpenters and plasterers entered 
the high school, and did not leave until the week 
before school opened. Perry, who had gone off 
to a camp immediately after the June examina¬ 
tions, came back to find an added story on the 
school building. 

“What’s the idea?” he asked George Praska. 
“Town been growing while I’ve been away?” 

George gave a slow smile. The thought of 
rapid growth for Northfield impressed him as a 
fine example of Perry’s humor. “Home rooms,” 
he said. 


2 




HOME ROOM IS 


Now Perry knew something about the home 
room idea in high schools; but on the moment 
his impish brain set out upon mischief. Into his 
face came a well-acted look of incredulity. 

“What?” he demanded. “Home runs? How 
can they teach that in school? Of course, we 
could stand some home runs. Last spring’s nine 
was awful. But who’s going to hit them? How 
can you teach home run hitting?” 

Praska looked at him doubtfully. 

“Well, who is?” Perry demanded again. 
“The nine didn’t hit a single home run last 
season.” 

George assumed that Perry had made an hon¬ 
est mistake. 

“Home r-o-o-m-s,” he said patiently. “Every¬ 
body in school will be assigned to a room. It 
will be his room until his days in the school are 
over. Each room will have something of the 
motto of the Three Musketeers : ‘All for one and 
one for all.’ Every fellow will have to be true 
to his room, and do things for it, and fight for 
it-” 

Perry’s look was appealingly innocent. 
“Where?” 

“Where what?” 

“Where will the fights be held? In the gym?” 

“Fights?” All at once a dry smile wrote itself 

3 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


unwillingly across the football guard’s lips. “Up 
to your old tricks. Don’t you ever take anything 
seriously? That home room plan is going to be 
a big thing. You’ll like it.” 

Perry yawned. “I hope so. I’ve always had 
an idea that some day I’d find something I could 
like at Northfield. How’s football going to run 
this fall?” 

“We’ll be there with a team,” Praska said 
calmly. “But we’ve got to elect a new manager.” 

“What happened to Crandall?” Perry de¬ 
manded. 

“Family moved away. Things will be a bit 
unsettled, I guess, until the new manager is 
elected.” 

“When will that be, George?” 

“Oh, about a week after school opens.” 

“Any—any candidates?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Well—” They had been walking and had 
come to a corner where their ways parted. “You 
just tell ’em, George, that I’m ready to start man¬ 
aging any time they say the word.” 

Praska, after a moment, began to laugh. 
“More of your jokes,” he said. “Only I know 
you so well, you old string-bean, I’d have thought 
you meant it. Good-night 1” 

Perry had meant it. All his life he had wor- 

4 




HOME ROOM 13 


shipped strength and brawn as only the thin 
weakling can. Football, baseball, and basket ball 
players had been his heroes and his earthly 
gods. 

The first year at Northfield he had turned out 
for all three sports. Baseball and basketball had 
given him the routine of a trial; football had not 
even considered him. The second year he had 
merely played the part of a loyal rooter. He 
had studied football rules in the hope that it 
might be his good fortune to invent a play that 
would save the bitter end of some disastrous 
season. He had learned to box-score a ball game 
in the hope that the gods might smile on him and 
lead him to the throne of Official Scorer. In 
his infatuation with all that stood for speed and 
stamina, skill and endurance, he had called him¬ 
self blessed if he could be linesman or foul chaser, 
guardian of an honored sweater or custodian of 
the water bucket. 

And now the place of manager of the eleven 
was open! Last fall, when Crandall had been 
selected, Perry was a sophomore and had not 
given the place a thought. By custom the man¬ 
ager’s berth always went to a junior or senior. 
But now he was eligible—he who had followed 
the team through two seasons without missing 
a game; he who had carted sweaters, minded 

5 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


watches and rings, and sat loyally and duti¬ 
fully through the halves come wind, or rain, or 
snow. 

His heart gave a queer sort of flutter. Hun¬ 
ger for the associations the manager’s place 
would give him caused him to feel a choking in 
the throat. After a time he tried to analyze his 
chances calmly. His record as a rooter was 
good. He could count on Praska because—be¬ 
cause-. He paused right there; the flutter 

in his heart suddenly turned to pain. Praska had 
laughed at him. 

He tried to tell himself that the football guard 
had not understood. When Praska, really knew 
-. He swallowed a lump in his throat. No¬ 
body had taken him seriously when he had turned 
out as a football candidate. Nobody had taken 
him very seriously when he had answered the call 
for baseball and basketball candidates. It might 
be, he thought in fright, that nobody would take 
him seriously even now. 

It did not dawn upon him that he himself had 
created this atmosphere of foolery so fatal to his 
own consideration. He had elected to play the 
uproarious joker; and the school had come to ac¬ 
cept him at his own valuation. Now, all at once, 
he began to fear to tell members of the eleven of 
his candidacy. And the thing he feared was 

6 






HOME ROOM 13 


something he had been courting through two 
years at Northfield High—laughter. 

When school opened he came back to his 
studies wearing the old air of mockery. But now 
it was a mask to hide a hurt. 

The morning was given over to getting the 
school settled to a new routine. For the first 
period of the afternoon Perry was booked for 
English V. He went there directly from the 
school cafeteria in the basement. A group of 
boys stood near the windows discussing home 
rooms. A sudden imp of perversity moved him 
to make sport of what all Northfield was taking 
soberly. 

“Did you hear the big things they’re going to 
do?” he asked casually. 

He had their interest on the instant. And yet, 
with true dramatic instinct, he held them on the 
hooks of suspense. He brushed a crumb from 
his coat; he whistled a snatch of song; he began 
to study a paper he took from his pocket. 

“Well, what’s the big news?” a voice asked im¬ 
patiently. 

“Oh!” Perry folded the paper and put it away. 
“I thought perhaps you knew. Each room will 
be a club. We’ll give dances, and tournaments, 
and—and have a clam-bake in the spring.” 

Mr. Quirk, who taught English V, came down 

7 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


between two aisles of desks to discover the cause 
of the commotion that seemed to revolve around 
a six-foot boy who stood importantly in its midst. 

“Perry’s been telling us about the home room 
plans,” said a voice; “about the dances, and the 
tournaments and the clam-bakes.” 

“And what?” the teacher asked. 

“Clam-bakes, sir.” 

“King said that?” Mr. Quirk seemed strug¬ 
gling with something that became a queer sort of 

strangling cough. “So King said-” Again he 

was seized with that strange attack and went up 
the room to his desk holding a handkerchief to 
his face. 

“English teachers,” Perry said in a guarded 
voice, “get that way sometimes. It’s a disease of 
the vocal cords from—from practicing too much 
reading. It’s very hard on them.” 

Perry’s conception of the home room swept 
joyously through the school. All that afternoon 
as classes gathered for periods it was the rosy 
topic of conversation. Perry, chuckling, told him¬ 
self that he had originated just about the great¬ 
est hoax ever. 

But the deception was short-lived. The hall 
bell, instead of ringing for the last period of the 
day, clanged the brassy summons that meant spe¬ 
cial assembly. The corridors grew noisy with 

8 





HOME ROOM IS 


the shuffling of feet as the school moved toward 
the auditorium. The orchestra, brought together 
for the first time since June, was conscious of the 
vacant places due to graduation and played a rag¬ 
ged and terrifying march. 

“I have called you together to-day,” Mr. Rue, 
the principal, said in his slow, exact way, “to tell 
you something of the home room plan that is to 
be used in this school.” 

Perry looked concerned. He had not expected 
that his bubble would burst so soon. 

“Every student,” the principal was saying, 
“will be assigned to a home room. That will be 
the student’s home room as long as he remains 
in the school. The student will report there, go 
there for study periods and make it, in short, his 
school home. He will give to the room his loy¬ 
alty, and the room will give him, in return, its 
consolidated strength. Each room will have a 
teacher assigned to it, and that teacher will be 
leader and helper, advisor and companion, cap¬ 
tain and friend, to every student in his room. 
Alphabetical lists have been posted on the bulle¬ 
tin boards. Every student’s name has been listed 
with the room to which he has been assigned.” 

Something told Perry that boys were staring 
at him and expressing a whispered and indignant 
condemnation. The orchestra struck up its rag- 

9 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


ged march, and Perry lounged out with the tide. 
In the hall a hand caught his arm. 

“Clam-bakes!” a voice said witheringly. “What 
were you doing, having a good time with us, you 
match stick?” 

“Did you take that stuff seriously?” Perry 
asked with an air of innocence. He smiled at 
them raptly. “If the Board of Health had not 
decided that typhoid germs are sometimes found 
in clams and oysters-” 

Somebody gave a laugh of resignation. 
“There’s no stopping you, Perry, is there? Put 
it over on us again. Our fault for paying any 
attention to you. Come on, fellows; let’s get at 
that home room list.” 

There was a movement toward the stairs. 
Perry, grinning, suddenly found himself beside 
George Praska. The football guard’s face was 
.grave. 

“You shouldn’t have done that, Perry.” 

Perry bristled at the criticism. “Why not? 
What harm did it do?” 

“I—I don’t know as I can put it into words,” 
Praska said hesitatingly. “This home room plan 
is good. When you make fun of it, you weaken 
it. Sometimes, in politics, good men are beaten 
because unscrupulous opponents turn a laugh on 
them and then keep pounding away at that until 

10 





HOME ROOM 13 


the good candidate looks ridiculous. That’s bad 
citizenship for everybody. It’s bad citizenship 
here in the school to get people laughing at the 
home room. You see that, don’t you?” 

“I don’t see as a laugh hurts anybody,” Perry 
defended. 

“But if it weakens something good, something 
that might be a stimulus-” 

“Where do you get that citizenship stuff?” 
Perry interrupted suspiciously. “From Mr. 
Banning?” 

Praska nodded. 

“Oh, that man.” Perry snapped his fingers. 
“He’s a pest. If he had only five minutes to live 
he’d say ‘For five minutes we will consider the 
part that arbitration has played in American poli¬ 
tics’.” 

Perry’s voice was a faithful reproduction of 
the civics teacher’s dry tones. Praska laughed 
and gave up the argument, and together they 
went down the stairs. 

“I hope we’re in the same room,” said Perry. 

They found, after pushing their way through 
the crowd that surrounded the bulletin board, 
that they were to be together in Room 13—and 
that Mr. Banning was to be the leader of the 
room. Perry gave a grunt of annoyance, and 
then became absorbed in something else. Care- 

11 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


fully he checked through the names. Nine of the 
football squad were in his room. 

“I guess,” he said with a quick look at the 
guard, “that Room 13 will be able to select one 
of its own crowd for football manager.” 

Praska nodded. “If they want to,” he said. 
Perry walked home wondering what that meant. 

Students were distributing circulars as he en¬ 
tered the school the next morning. He read the 
one that was handed to him: 

ARE YOU A CANDIDATE? 

The football squad decided yesterday to ask 
every student who believes that he could 
act as manager of the football team to file 
his own nomination. No student should feel 
self-conscious about asking for the place if 
he thinks he can fill it. If you are a can¬ 
didate tell any member of the team that you 
would like to be considered. 

This circular is distributed by 

“The Northfield Breeze” 

If you want to keep up with the news of 
your school read your school newspaper. 
Published thirty-five times during the school 
year. 

5c per copy. 


12 


$1.50 per year. 




HOME ROOM IS 


The circular was a clever piece of journalistic 
enterprise, but Perry did not think of that. He 
had been afraid to mention his ambitions; now, 
all at once, the fear was gone. They could not 
celebrate him as an uproarious joke after asking 
him to declare himself. In a moment all the hot 
desire to have part in the athletic life of North- 
field was rampant in his veins. To come and go 
with the football crowd, to be one of them in fact 
and in spirit, to do his part for the team and the 
school, to go into dressing room and gym with 
none to stop him at the door! His breath began 
to quicken. 

“Anybody seen Praska?” he demanded hur¬ 
riedly. 

“Just went upstairs,” said a voice. 

Perry’s long, thin legs took the stairs two at a 
time. On the second floor he overtook the foot¬ 
ball guard walking toward Room 13. 

“George! Wait a minute. Did you know yes¬ 
terday about this circular?” 

“The whole squad knew about it.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“We had promised the Breeze. They wanted 
to catch the school by surprise with a real piece 
of news—use it to impress the freshmen and get 
subscriptions.” 

“Well-” All at once Perry found his 

13 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


throat gone dry. “I’m a candidate,” he said. He 
meant it to be casual and matter-of-fact. It 
sounded defiant. 

Praska made a noise with his lips. It might 
have been a subdued whistle of surprise. He 
kept staring down the corridor, now and then 
stepping out of the way of hurrying students with 
a sort of absent-mindedness. 

“It’s about time to report,” he said at last. 

Perry caught his arm. “I can count on you, 
can’t I?” 

“I—I don’t know,” the football guard said 
slowly and uncomfortably. “You’re such a queer 
eel. You might take it into your head that man¬ 
aging the team was some sort of comedy. We’ve 
got to do what’s best for the team, and you may 
not be the best. And then there’s Room 13. If 
the manager comes from our room he’ll give the 
room a black eye if he doesn’t stand right up to 
his job. It’s like electing somebody to public 
office just because he’s a good fellow. Mr. Ban¬ 
ning says that when you do that you usually get 
a good fellow who isn’t up to being a good offi¬ 
cial.” 

Perry dropped his arm. “I thought you were 
a friend of mine,” he said bitterly. 

“I am.” Praska was genuinely distressed. “If 
you didn’t do so many fool things— I’ve got to 

14 





HOME ROOM IS 


think about the team, and Room 13, and-Oh, 

darn it, Perry, if I could only be sure of you.” 

Perry turned from him and walked away. 

Mr. Banning was tall and spare, with hollows 
in his cheeks and along his neck behind his ears. 
His frame did not fit well into clothes—there 
were too many sharp corners to his being. His 
coat hung baggily from his shoulders; his trousers 
had a habit of bunching at the bottom where their 
legs came in contact with his shoes. But looking 
at his face you forgot his clothes. In his eyes was 
something that held you. In them was the fire, 
the vision, the enthusiasm of the dreamer. 

There was a rapt look in his eyes this morning. 
Room 13 was finding that instead of being simply 
a school room it was a community. Young citi¬ 
zens of the future were having their first taste of 
participating in their own government. When the 
idea of the home room had been broached among 
the teachers, Mr. Banning had been quick to sup¬ 
port the plan. He saw in it a chance to make the 
high school students feel that they were, in fact 
as well as name, citizens of the American com¬ 
monwealth. 

And so, when Room 13 had filled that morn¬ 
ing, he had tried to overcome the strangeness 
that usually sits on boys face to face with a new 
venture. He had told them that, in so far as 

15 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


was possible, they themselves were going to be 
the rulers of the room deciding its policies and 
determining its judgments. 

‘Til just be the umpire,” he said. “I will 
never interfere unless I am compelled to. When 
an American citizen gets into trouble away from 
home his first thought is to appeal to his Govern¬ 
ment at Washington for help and protection. I 
want you to carry that same feeling with respect 
to Room 13. If you get into trouble in school, 
bring that trouble here. If you’re right, the 
whole room will be behind you; if you’re wrong, 
your friends here will tell you so and counsel as 
to what you had better do to make amends. Some¬ 
times you may have to take punishment. If you 
do it will be because your own room thinks you 
deserve punishment, just as the various States re¬ 
gretfully punish those citizens who break the law. 
When people rule themselves wisely they have 
law and order. When law and order are ab¬ 
sent the result is anarchy. Here in Northfield 
High, in Room 13, and in every other home 
room, we are going to try to be good citizens of 
our school republic.” 

The room talked over its problems with sud¬ 
den seriousness. There was, first of all, the ques¬ 
tion of the attendance book. Somebody had to 
be appointed to mark the time when the citizens 

16 




HOME ROOM 13 


of Room 13 reported each morning and after¬ 
noon. 

“I wonder,” said Mr. Banning, “if we want 
just that? The United States passes laws and 
so do the several States. But they do not keep 
count on us individually to see that we obey 
They presume that good citizens will obey. If 
there might be some method by which each stu¬ 
dent would take the responsibility of reporting 

his own time-.” The teacher looked about the 

room. 

“Why,” George Praska asked slowly, “why 
can’t each fellow sign his own time as he comes 
in? It’s up to him to be square about it.” 

They settled it in that way; and Mr. Banning, 
who had been hoping that they would rise to the 
occasion of responsibility, felt his spirits soar. 
What a fine understanding they had brought to 
Room 13 ! And then a cloud appeared upon his 
sky. Back toward the rear of the room a thin 
boy sprawled in a seat with dejection, bitterness 
and resentment written in every line of his face. 

The hall bells rang for the start of a period. 
As Room 13 began to empty itself, Mr. Banning 
walked down toward the door. He was there 
when the thin boy approached. 

“Anything wrong, Perry?” he asked. 

Perry shook his head. 

“What do you think of our room?” 

17 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Perry’s rancor found expression in words 
“The room’s all right,” he said, “but the crowd 
in it gives me a pain.” 

A moment later, out in the hall on his way to 
a period of French, he was sorry that he had let 
his tongue run unchecked. It had been, at best, 
an ungracious reply to a friendly question. But 
gall and wormwood were thick on his lips. Mr. 
Banning had spoken of the way the room would 
stand together; and yet, with a majority of the 
football squad on its roll, the room was shying 
away from his candidacy. And he wanted so much 
to feel that he was part of the athletic life of 
Northfield! 

If you’re right, Mr. Banning had said, the 
whole room will be behind you. If you’re wrong 
-Perry didn’t finish that thought. 

“It’s just talk,” he told himself angrily. “They 
won’t make a fool of me.” 

And so, between classes and also during the 
period in the school lunch room at noon, he ridi¬ 
culed and hooted the home room plan. In every 
school there are those who are more or less at 
outs with the rules and who hinder rather than 
help; around him Perry drew all these unworthy 
malcontents. All at once, conscious of the ex¬ 
clusive character of his audience, he dropped his 
tirade. He had not bargained to become a leader 

18 





HOME ROOM 13 


of bad eggs. Fate, he told himself as he left the 
lunch room, was playing him some shabby and 
diabolical tricks when the fellows he admired 
most would have none of him and those that the 
school viewed as trouble-makers accepted him as 
a prophet. 

George Praska, already arrived in Room 13, 
called to him a greeting as he entered. Had 
George appeared to be at all uncomfortable Perry 
might have experienced a soothing sense of com¬ 
pensation. But the football guard’s unchanged 
friendliness stung. To Perry it was a sign that 
Praska viewed lightly the happenings of the 
morning. Scorn he could have met with scorn; 
but indifference from one he had rated as his 
friend rankled. 

And then came a reckless desire to show them 
all that he did not care a fig for their opinions. 
A fresh attendance sheet was on Mr. Banning’s 
desk. There were the A. M. and the P. M. col¬ 
umns. He found his name, moved his pencil out 
to the afternoon file and wrote: 

25c-2-l 

The next boy to go up to the desk to 
register stared, looked down the room at Perry, 
and stared again. Perry chuckled. Then Ham¬ 
mond, the quarterback, saw it, and called Praska 
and Littlefield, the right end. This time Perry 

19 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


looked down at the floor. After a while he saw 
them move away from the book, walk over to 
one of the windows, and stand there talking. Once 
more that day he had acted on impulse, and once 
more he was sorry. He squirmed in his seat, 
and would have given much to have known what 
the three football players were talking about. 

It was Littlefield who finally came toward him. 
“What does that funny stuff on the sheet mean?” 
he asked. 

“Twenty-five cents is a quarter,” Perry said 
gruffly. “It’s simple. Quarter to one.” 

“I see,” Littlefield said gravely, and went back 
and joined the others. 

On the way out of the room, for the first pe¬ 
riod of the afternoon, Perry overtook Praska. 

“Did you tell them?” he demanded. He de¬ 
spised himself for asking the question, but some¬ 
thing within him would not let him rest until he 
knew. 

“I told them during lunch hour,” the guard 
answered. 

They went down the hall together. Appar¬ 
ently, to Praska, there was nothing more to tell. 
Perry bit his lips. 

“What—what did they say?” 

Praska’s answer was cryptic. “Why did you 
write that fool thing on the attendance sheet?” 

20 




HOME BOOM IS 


Perry had written his cabalistic sign to show 
that he cared naught for public opinion in his 
home room, yet— During the first period his 
thoughts were far removed from algebra; luck¬ 
ily, he was not called upon. With algebra out 
of the way came a study period, and he went back 
to Room 13. The place was silent save for the 
occasional scratch of a pen or rustle of a page. 
It bore every evidence of having something to 
do and being busily engaged with doing it. 

Perry got his long body settled into a seat. 
Mr. Banning gave a seemingly absent glance and 
went back to some work he was doing. There 
was work awaiting Perry too; but with his chin 
cupped in a thin, bony hand he stared at the desk. 
Boys came in and took places around him, but 
he did not lift his eyes. Why had he written that 
fool thing? Praska’s question could mean only 
that by that silly act he had weakened whatever 
chance he had had. 

“Perry!” 

He raised his head dully. 

“Perry King.” 

Mr. Banning was calling. He roused himself 
and went up to the teacher’s desk. He saw Lit¬ 
tlefield’s eyes leave a book and frowningly 
watch his journey. At that his own eyes became 
sullen. He had no doubt what the subject of 

21 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


the interview would be. If Littlefield expected 
to sit there and gloat at the sight of him offering 
apology and excuse to Mr. Banning, then Little¬ 
field was doomed to disappointment. 

But Mr. Banning’s smile was warm. He mo¬ 
tioned to a chair drawn close to his own. 

“We’ll have to keep our voices down,” he 
said, “so as not to disturb the others. I want to 
talk to a number of the fellows—personally— 
you among them. Later, each home room is to 
elect delegates to a central body that will be a 
sort of school Congress. Some one of these home 
rooms, as time runs along, is going to develop 
students with the powers of leadership. That 
home room is going to become the leading home 
room. It is going to write its influence into every 
classroom, every organization, every team in 
Northfield. We want Room 13 to be that leader. 
That’s the reason why I want to talk to you and 
some of the others who are going to be the lead¬ 
ers of the room.” 

Perry sat there in the grip of numbing amaze¬ 
ment. To be called in conference as a leader-. 

His body stiffened. He kept his position in the 
chair, very still and very straight, as though sur¬ 
prise and wonderment had frozen him to a ri¬ 
gidity of shocked incredulity. 

“I wanted a few words with you, Perry, about 

22 





HOME ROOM 13 


leadership. Our leaders in the State Capitol and 
at Washington are not accidents. They have 
achieved because they have done definite things; 
task by task, effort by effort, step by step, they 
have gone ahead and have grown in reputation. 
Any man can do to-day what should have been 
done yesterday. The leader wins his place be¬ 
cause he can see ahead, to-morrow from to-day. 
Lincoln, for instance. He became a leader be¬ 
cause he was one of the first to see and to pro¬ 
claim that this Nation could not continue to exist 
half slave and half free. You can understand 
that, Perry?” 

Perry nodded. And still he sat in that attitude 
of frozen astonishment. 

“Leadership,” Mr. Banning went on, “is wis¬ 
dom. It carefully considers what it is about to 
do and sees clearly what result will follow. Most 
people do things on the spur of the moment with¬ 
out due thought. That’s the reason there are so 
few persons fit to lead. There is one thing that 
Room 13 must never do—it must never go off 
half cocked. Often mistakes, once made, can 
never be remedied. Sometimes they can be re¬ 
trieved. The true leader always knows when to 
admit he has been wrong. That’s all, Perry. 
You’ll remember it, won’t you?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Perry, and arose from the 

23 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


chair and started back toward his desk. Some¬ 
times mistakes can be retrieved! The words kept 

echoing in his mind. Sometimes-. Abruptly 

he turned about and went back to Mr. Banning’s 
desk. 

The attendance sheet lay where it had been 
left early in the afternoon. The teacher of civics, 
reading a book and marking it, did not look up to 
see what Perry might be doing. The boy found 
a rubber in his pocket. With his long, thin body 
draped ungracefully over the desk he erased the 
thing he had written that afternoon and in its 
place put a matter-of-fact “12:45.” Still Mr. 
Banning did not look up from his book. 

With eyes lowered Perry returned to his desk. 
Had his head been lifted he would have seen 
Littlefield looking after him at first with a frown 
and then with a quiet smile. And had he looked 
back he would have seen that Mr. Banning was 
covertly surveying him over the top of the book. 

More than once, that night, Perry’s cheeks 
flushed at the memory of practical jokes with 
which he had hocus-pocused the school. At the 
time he had viewed these deceptions as mere fun; 
now they taunted him with the fact that they 
had written his reputation as a trickster. He had 
let his prankish moods sway him, and had not 
looked ahead. No wonder the football crowd, 

24 





HOME ROOM 13 


seeking to select a leader, passed him by with 
slight consideration! 

He had been bitter at Praska, but that was 
passing. Praska had been looking ahead. The 
football guard had been thinking of something 
bigger than merely pleasing a friend. Secretly 
Perry had often viewed himself as a brainier chap 
than the plodding guard; he had even been a lit¬ 
tle contemptuous as those of his character are 
apt to be. Now in his chastened mood, he saw 
that Praska’s slow mind moved irresistibly to log¬ 
ical conclusions. Praska was a thinker. Perry felt 
cheap and insignificant. 

However, an awakening was upon him. Mr. 
Banning, during that short talk in the home room, 
had opened his mind to many things. Whether 
or not he was to become a leader of Room 13, 
it came to him that he owed it to himself, to his 
school, to be something more than a humbugging 
jester. His dream of the managership of the 
football team was gone. He put it from him 
with a sigh. In the void it left came a resolution 
to play a part that never again would cause any 
one to distrust his capabilities because of foolish 
things he had done. 

There had been an understanding in North- 
field that the football team would announce the 
selection of its manager next morning. But no 

25 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


notice appeared on the bulletin boards as the 
home rooms gathered and no information was 
given out as the day wore on. Twice that after¬ 
noon, in Room 13, Perry saw Praska and Little¬ 
field studying him and trying to hide their scru¬ 
tiny. What they might think of him now had 
ceased to vex him. 

After classes he came back to Room 13 to get 
a notebook. The Dramatic Club had the use of 
the auditorium for a tryout of candidates for the 
Christmas play; as he came from the room, a 
group of the club members were on their way 
to the stairs. 

“Something’s going on in the football squad,” 
one of the crowd said wisely. “I heard that they 
were holding up the ballot and keeping an eye 
on one of the candidates. Wonder who it can 
be?” 

Perry wondered too—and felt a shaft of envy 
for the lucky fellow who still had a chance. 

That evening, on the street, he met Praska. 
The friendly greeting he had resented in Room 
13 now warmed him. They spoke of many things, 
but all the while the football guard seemed turn¬ 
ing something in his mind in his slow way. Sud¬ 
denly : 

“Did Mr. Banning ask you to change that at¬ 
tendance sheet?” 


26 




HOME ROOM 13 


“No,” said Perry. 

Praska fell into a silence. Somehow Perry got 
the idea that, if he spoke again, his words would 
hold something of moment. And at last he spoke. 

“I—I’d watch my step for—the next few 
days.” 

Just that—nothing more. Perry was disap¬ 
pointed. Their ways parted. Something that 
Mr. Banning had said had started Perry on an¬ 
other line of thought and he wanted Ida Tarbell’s 
“Lincoln.” He was coming out of the public 
library, with the book under one arm, when a* 
phrase of Praska’s came back to him. For the 
next few days I He stumbled down the library 
steps, unconsciously hugging the book, lost for 
the moment to all else but a great and surging 
hope. For now he knew the truth. He was the 
fellow the football squad was considering. 

It was hours after he went to bed that night 
before he fell asleep. His ambitions, called back 
to life, painted a riotous succession of pleasing 
pictures. He saw himself as one of the football 
squad, traveling to games in their bus, a locker- 
room companion of all who wore the moleskin, 
sitting in by right at their most sacred confer¬ 
ences. His soul thrilled. Watch his step ? He’d 
watch it as step was never watched before. 

The morning sent him to Northfield High 

27 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


with a buoyant step. But the day was to bring 
disaster, black and overwhelming. Passing out 
of Room 13 for the first period, in some unac¬ 
countable way he slipped and fell. Instinctively, 
as he lost his balance, he caught the boy next to 
him. That boy caught at another. Five of them 
sprawled in undignified disorder just outside the 
door. 

“What’s going on here?” Mr. Banning called. 

“I slipped, sir,” Perry answered. He found 
some of the students treating the affair as a prank. 
“I slipped,” he said sharply to those around him. 

An hour later, during English V, Mr. Quirk 
asked some one to open a window. Perry, sitting 
on an outside aisle, sprang to obey. He threw 
a window wide; and a sporting September breeze, 
wafting in, lifted a pile of papers from the teach¬ 
er’s desk and scattered them about the room. 

“I asked for air,” Mr. Quirk said tartly; “not 
a cyclone.” 

Perry retrieved the papers. As he came back 
to his seat along the aisle students winked at him. 
His face was dark. If they thought he was up 
to his old tricks—. He tried to catch a glimpse 
of Praska, but Praska’s head happened to be 
turned the other way. 

At noon, in the cafeteria, he merely picked at 
the food he got at the long service counter. 

28 




HOME ROOM IS 


He wished that he could talk with Praska. He 
wanted to assure him that the things that had 
happened that morning had not been premedi¬ 
tated. But the football guard, with a group of 
other football players, sat at a table in a corner. 
After a while Perry brought back his dishes and 
wandered out into the school hall. 

It did not need a great amount of perspicacity 
to tell him that his chances had probably become 
precarious. He had accustomed the school to 
look to him for buffoonery until now the inclina¬ 
tion was to view all his actions as jest and banter. 
It was driven home to him anew how much reputa¬ 
tion is shaped by the things done from day to 
day. Reputation! His reputation—and Pras- 
ka’s! A bitter smile twitched at his lips. 

Yet, because Mr. Banning had given him a 
vision of leadership, he did not fall back into a 
reckless mood as of old. Leaders, he told him¬ 
self, must look ahead. And so, after a time, he 
came back to Room 13. The clock was about 
to usher in a study period. A few students were 
already in the room. Mr. Banning, catching his 
eye as he entered, beckoned him to his desk. 

“Perry,” he said, handing him a written order, 
“will you go down to the office and get me a 
bottle of red ink?” 

The boy departed on the errand, and in the 

29 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


hall met Praska and some of the football fellows 
on their way to the home room. In the office, 
what with some scholars presenting excuses for 
having been absent that morning and others hand¬ 
ing in requests to be dismissed before their time 
that afternoon, there was some delay. The 
study period had started in Room 13 when Perry 
returned. 

And then, all in an instant, the crowning dis¬ 
aster of the day happened. He was holding out 
the bottle to Mr. Banning, and the teacher’s hand 
was outstretched to take it. He released the bot¬ 
tle, saw too late that Mr. Banning did not have 
it, grabbed frantically—and missed. The bottle 
crashed in pieces on the floor. A pool of red 
ink spread over the varnish. Some one out in the 
room among the desks gave an exclamation of 
despair. 

The voice was Praska’s. 

All through the study period Perry’s white 
face was before Mr. Banning’s eyes. At the 
words of regret that had faltered from the boy’s 
lips the teacher had merely nodded as a sign that 
he had heard and had sent him back to his seat. 
But the evidence of that white face could not be 
denied. Perry had not deliberately slipped the 
bottle from his grasp. And so, as the period 

30 




HOME ROOM IS 


drew to an end, the man, walking down the aisle, 
dropped another order at the boy’s place. 

“Get me another bottle sometime today,” he 
said in an undertone. 

Some of the color came back to Perry’s face. 
As the class filed out, Praska crowded over to 
him. 

“What happened, Perry?” 

“It was an accident.” He could say no more 
for there was a choke in his throat. 

In the hall Littlefield called to the guard. 
Perry went on alone to his next recitation. The 
managership and the bottle of ink, he muttered, 
had slipped inexorably from his fingers at the 
same moment. Several times he had felt that 
he was on the crest of success or in the valley of 
failure. There could be no doubt about this last 
happening. He was beaten. 

It was indicative of the way he had begun to 
look at things that, even in this bitter moment, his 
thoughts went to Room 13. The red stain of the 
ink was before his eyes. So long as that stain 
stayed there it would be a reproach. The floor 
of the room would be marred. There would al¬ 
ways be some to say that, in one of his silly gay 
moments, Perry King had-. He winced. 

When his last recitation of the day was over, 
he went down to the office for his ink. 

31 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“I broke the other bottle,” he said. “I’d like 
permission to clean up the mess I made.” 

He came back to Room 13 with the ink; nor 
did he know that, as he passed up the stairs with 
the bottle in his hands, Littlefield saw him through 
an open door of the gym and cried a hurried 
word over his shoulder to others within the place. 

From the home room Perry went down to the 
manual training department in a basement wing. 
From the janitor’s storeroom he got water in a 
pail, a brush and some sand. In the wood shop 
he got varnish stain. 

Room 13 was deserted when he came back to 
it. On his knees, he wet the brush, spread sand 
over the red splash, and began to rub. It was 
hard work. The sweat ran down his face, and 
he took off his collar and opened his shirt at the 
throat. By and by he mopped up the water and 
sand and surveyed his labors. The red was fad¬ 
ing out. 

An hour passed, and then the sand had rubbed 
off the varnish down to the white boards. His 
hands and wrists and arms ached. Slowly, care¬ 
fully, he dried the floor, and then began to fan it 
with a book. Thirty minutes passed. The floor 
was dry to his touch. He took the varnish stain 
and painted over the spot where the ink had been 
spilled. When he was finished, the floor, save 

32 




HOME ROOM 13 


that one place looked fresher, was all the one 
color. It was no longer marred. 

He stood up, stretched his muscles, and sighed. 
Suddenly, at a sound, he whirled toward the door. 
Praska was there, and Littlefield and Hammond, 
the quarterback, and others of the football squad. 
Perry’s face went white once more. 

“You had us guessing for a while,” said Ham¬ 
mond. “We knew you had the head, Perry, but 

“Why did you bother to clean it?” a voice 
asked. 

“It was a blot on Room 13,” said Perry, stead- 
ily. 

They stood there looking across the room, the 
football crowd in a group, the lone boy with his 
collar still unbuttoned. Praska began to chuckle. 

“You old bean-pole!” he said affectionately. 
“We thought we had you figured right. That’s 
the reason we elected you manager of the term.” 





CHAPTER II 


THE BALLOT IN ROOM 13 

P ERRY KING, tall, thin, bony and un¬ 
gainly, stood beside a pile of tumbled 
sweaters and tasted an importance that 
was new, and strange, and intoxicating. Bristow, 
the editor of the Northfield Breeze, had actually 
asked him to bring back the story of the game 
for the school paper. And, if that were not glory 
enough, Hammond, quarterback and captain of 
the eleven, had asked him to keep check on the 
time. He caught Hammond’s eye and made a 
signal with his fingers. Seven minutes to play! 
A great game, with Northfield in the lead 14 to 
7; and he, Perry King, with his part in it all. 

The stands were bleak and deserted; the crowd 
was following the game along the side lines. The 
sky was gray, the ground was damp, a chill wind 
blew across the field—but Perry did not bother 
to button his topcoat across his narrow chest. He 
did not even feel the penetrating rawness of the 
day. The ambition that had been part of him 

34 


THE BALLOT IN ROOM 13 


for two years, the yearning to have some part 
in the athletic life of his school, had at last been 
realized. Overnight, as it were, through his 
election as manager of the team, he had become 
a somebody. 

He told himself that he had made a good job 
of this, his first game. He had checked up suit 
cases in the Northfield gym and had grouped them 
in a corner so that the start had been without 
confusion and last-minute frenzy. He had 
checked up again just before leaving and had 
found Littlefield, the right end, to be minus his 
head guard. They had reached the railroad 
station late, to find a clamoring line of men and 
women in front of the ticket window; but he had 
purchased tickets for the team the day before. 
“Some head,” George Praska, the big guard, had 
commended. The same glow that had run 
through Perry then ran through him now at the 
memory. 

A cheer broke from the handful of Northfield 
rooters who had accompanied the team. 

“Wasn’t it Praska who stopped that play?” a 
voice asked at Perry’s elbow. 

“I wasn’t watching just then,” Perry ans¬ 
wered. 

The voice was deferential. “I suppose you’ve 
got to just close your eyes to the game and give 

35 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


p— ——- i....— —————— 11 1 

all your attention to the watch. It’s just like be¬ 
ing one of the team, isn’t it?” 

“Well,” Perry said carelessly, “it’s not exactly 
that.” 

This was another thing new to him, having 
somebody tag along at his elbow. He was not 
without vanity; he found the experience pleasant. 
Even if the tagger was only Johnnie Baffin, it 
showed that already his position was felt and 
marked. 

Baffin was, perhaps, the least of all the North- 
field students. Every high school has a few of 
his kind—good-natured but dull fellows who find 
the simplest studies hard, who are baffled by 
problems demanding thought and analysis, and 
who blunder along in a sort of scared and pathetic 
helplessness. They have no opinions of their 
own, follow blindly where the more venturesome 
lead, and contribute absolutely nothing to the 
welfare of their schools. How Johnnie Baffin 
had managed to get through his freshman and 
sophomore years was the ever-present Northfield 
mystery. It was a mystery to Johnnie, too. Only 
the faculty knew how narrow the margin of his 
escape. Had he dropped out of school his going 
would have created not even a ripple. The boy 
in the next seat might not have marked that he 
had gone. For even in a crowd he was always 

36 





THE BALLOT IN ROOM IS 


on the outskirts, a shrinking, unnoticed, almost 
apologetic figure. 

The Northfield cheer came presumptuously 
from the few Northfield throats. 

“I guess it’s our ball, isn’t it?” Baffin asked. 

Perry surveyed the field. “Of course it’s our 
ball. There’s Hammond crouched behind the 
center ready to take the pass. Where’s your 
eyes?” 

“Yes; our ball,” Baffin said with more confi¬ 
dence. “Not much chance to score again, I 
guess.” 

“Lots of chance,” said Perry, “with a corking 
good team like ours.” 

“Yes, I guess there is,” Baffin agreed. He 
never argued his opinion, but quickly ran to cover 
and surrendered. The school—those who ob¬ 
served him at all—called him “Me, too, John¬ 
nie.” 

The team did score again, Hammond carrying 
the ball around the end on a quarterback run. 

“Didn’t I tell you?” Perry cried, and made 
note of the length of the run on a slip of paper. 
A minute later the game was over. Even as the 
team cheered its rivals, even as the players broke 
and ran for the dressing room, Perry gathered 
up the sweaters and with full and overflowing 
arms staggered after. 


37 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


There was work for him to do in his capacity 
as manager. First he collected from the manager 
of the rival school one half the traveling ex¬ 
penses of his team, and gravely signed a receipt 
for the money. Then sitting on a bench, he drew 
from his pockets a miscellaneous collection— 
rings, watches, fobs, a pair of glasses, some 
greenbacks and a jingling handful of silver. Next, 
with a memorandum before him, he began to 
count the money into piles. This was part of the 
manager’s job at Northfield—acting as custodian 
of those valuables that the players brought to the 
game. 

Littlefield was the first Northfield boy dressed. 
“Hi, there, Perry; I gave you eighty cents.” 

Perry consulted the memorandum. Little¬ 
field’s name was there with “80R.” written next 
to it. Perry handed him a half a dollar, a quarter 
and a nickel. “You’ll have to pick out your own 
ring,” he said. “Pick a good one.” 

Littlefield grinned good-naturedly at this 
ancient joke. 

“One dollar and five cents for me,” came an¬ 
other voice. 

Hammond called from down the room. “Be 
sure you don’t over-pay some of those pirates and 
run short, Perry. Pm down on your books for 
thirty-five cents.” 


38 




THE BALLOT IN ROOM 13 


Presently the last player had drawn what was 
coming to him, and Perry’s responsibility was 
ended. At the door he kept shouting, “Ten min¬ 
utes to train-time, fellows, ten minutes I’’ One by 
one, as they filed out, he handed them their re¬ 
turn trip tickets. When the last player was ac¬ 
counted for he went stalking after them, a long- 
legged person pleasingly responsive to the savor 
of his duties and responsibilities. 

When the train came in, the team made the 
usual scramble for places. Perry found himself 
in a seat with Praska. The guard was watching 
him with a quizzical expression in his eyes. Perry, 
new to his position, grew uneasy. 

“What’s the matter? Did I do something 
wrong?” 

Praska shook his head. “I was thinking of 
something else. Why did you make a note of 
what everybody gave you?” 

“I wanted to have it right, of course.” 

“But if we gave you only four or five dollars, 
you’d pay back only four or five dollars, wouldn’t 
you?” 

“But I wanted to make sure each fellow got 
back exactly what was coming to him.” 

Praska nodded. “That’s the value of having 
a thing in black and white. You know just what 
value to give each one. You don’t have to wonder 

39 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


about this fellow or that fellow. No guessing; 
you just study what’s on the slip.” 

There was a quality in Praska’s voice now that 
gave Perry pause. He had heard that specula¬ 
tive, slow, thoughtful tone before. Usually it 
meant that the guard, after his own deliberate 
fashion, was establishing a point he wanted to 
make. Perry glanced at him suspiciously. 

“Funny, isn’t it,” the guard went on, “how 
important things are always set down in writing 
and not left to chance. The man who buys a 
house gets a deed. If he puts money in the bank 
he gets a bank book. If he goes into business 
he hires a bookkeeper.” 

“What’s funny about that?” Perry wanted to 
know. 

“Nothing.” Praska’s voice was mild. “If a 
big business house has a good job open and three 
men apply, it makes them fill out a statement. 
With everything before it, it can think things 
over, decide what man is best qualified, and—” 

But Perry waited to hear no more. A light 
had broken upon him. One movement and he 
was out of the seat; another, and he was in the 
aisle of the coach. 

“Leading up to another argument about the 
home room election, aren’t you?” he demanded. 
“Almost caught me, too, didn’t you? Getting so a 

40 




THE BALLOT IN BOOM 13 


fellow can’t come near you without hearing about 
ballots, ballots, ballots. You’re a fine football 
player, George, but on this election business 
you’re a three-ringed nuisance. I’m going up 
front and find a seat in which I can ride in peace.” 

Praska smiled patiently. “You admitted, Perry, 
that there was nothing funny about setting 
things down in writing in banks, and-” 

But Perry fled through the aisle up toward the 
coach ahead. 

The smile remained on Praska’s face after 
Perry had disappeared through the car door, but 
it did not extend to his eyes, nor was there humor 
running through his mind. The conductor came 
through, he handed over his ticket absently, and 
his gaze wandered out of the window. The train 
was running through rolling country—brown 
fields stripped bare of their harvest, cows stand¬ 
ing in fall-thinned pastures with bovine placidity, 
white houses seen through the bare trees and tidy, 
red barns. But the pastoral picture might just as 
well not have been there. He did not see it. 

His mind was back in Room 13. The room 
had been in operation for only three weeks, 
but already it had made a deep and telling im¬ 
pression upon him. He had for it the passionate 
love that the true citizen feels for his country. 
It was his country—his school country, his repub- 

41 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


lie in miniature, and his part in it lay over his 
soul. Once Mr. Banning had said that honor 
and integrity would be written of Room 13 only 
as each student brought honor and integrity to it. 
Praska, pondering that, had never forgotten. 
He was thinking of Mr. Banning’s words now. 

In three days the room would elect its officers. 
Praska’s face became grave. To him that elec¬ 
tion was not a thing of passing moment but an 
event of epic importance. His studies under Mr. 
Banning had impressed him with the fact that 
great causes brought forth great leaders. He 
viewed his home room—its unity, its ambitions, 
its loyalty—as a great cause. Would it select a 
leader who would inspire it to great efforts? For 
himself he had no ambitions; for the home room 
he had many aspirations. 

Unconsciously he had followed Mr. Banning 
far. The teacher, an unassuming, apparently 
commonplace sort of man, influenced much of his 
thought. One day, in class, Mr. Banning had 
spoken of the early settlers of the West—of how, 
though a part of the country, the threads that 
knit them to the Government at Washington 
were long and loose. Looking back, Praska told 
himself that that has been his position in the 
school. He had been a Northfield man—just 
that and nothing more. But the home room had 

42 




THE BALLOT IN ROOM 13 


gathered him in with others, had made him feel 
the depth of his association with them, and out 
of it had sprung the sentiment that suddenly 
made the school a background of real life and a 
tower of inspiration. He had been transformed 
into Praska of Room 13 of Northfield High. So 
had the unconfined limitless prairies become the 
bounded States of a great Union. 

In the announcement that Room 13 was to elect 
its officers, Praska had found a thrill of a kind 
that had never come to him in the heat of play 
on the football field. The word itself had a 
sound of solemnity. He viewed elections as 
something sacred. Men had frozen, starved and 
died for the right of free expression. But the 
home room, judged by its actions, was not awed. 
Instead of serious thought, Praska found clamor 
and a confusion of rival claims. Each student 
had his own idea of who should be elevated to 
the honors. Debates went on heatedly in the cor¬ 
ridors, in the cafeteria, and even in the home room 
itself. Boys, overcome by the fury of argument, 
daily deserted their candidates and appeared with 
strange and bewildering choices. Instead of a 
calm weighing of candidates there was chaos. 
Consideration was routed by noise. 

And then Praska had proposed a formal bal¬ 
lot; a ballot carefully prepared before the elec- 

43 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


tion day. “We need something,” he said, “that 
will give a fellow an idea where he’s at.” But 
the home room, enjoying the excitement of ex¬ 
pansive, spontaneous debate, would not listen. 
“The trouble with George,” Hammond, the quar¬ 
terback, had said plaintively, “is that he takes 
things too serious; you’d imagine we were going 
to elect a President of the United States.” But 
Praska continued to agitate. He broke into argu¬ 
ments that were going on happily and merrily, 
and won only scowls or sighs. And then he began 
to find groups scattering at his approach. His 
eyes clouded at that, but did not lose their deter¬ 
mination. There was something of the bulldog 
about him. 

The train came to Northfield, but he sat at the 
window lost in his thoughts. Hammond called: 
“Come on, George; here’s the place where we 
vote.” Some of the others laughed. He roused 
himself, and came down the aisle with his suit 
case banging against his knees. He was the last 
of the team to reach the platform. The others 
were already halfway to the street. He called to 
Perry; but Perry, waving a hand in mock horror, 
hurried on. 

“Good game, wasn’t it?” said an apologetic 
voice at his elbow. Even when stating facts 
Johnny Baffin did not seem sure of himself. 

44 




THE BALLOT IN ROOM IS 


The guard nodded absently. The game was a 
thing of the past. “What do you think of a 
formal ballot?” he asked suddenly. 

Johnny squirmed. “It’s an awful lot of trouble 
to go to just for a school election, isn’t it? Most 
of the fellows think-” 

“What do you think about it?” 

“Why, maybe each fellow could just write the 
names of the fellows he wanted—” 

“Now look here!” Praska’s muscular fore¬ 
finger tapped his chest. “You’re not thinking 
straight. That’s too much hit and miss. A dozen 
fellows might be voted for, and one might win 
just because he happened to get about nine votes. 
Why didn’t Mr. Banning hold this election be¬ 
fore? He waited until we got settled and had a 
chance to size up each other. He wanted us to 
know what we were doing. And what are we 
doing? We’re running around with everybody 
talking in a different key. Isn’t that so?” 

“Why, yes; I guess it is.” 

“That wouldn’t happen if candidates were 
nominated and their names put on a ballot. We’d 
know who were candidates. Wouldn’t that be 
better?” 

“I—I didn’t say it wouldn’t be; I didn’t say 
anything against it. Yes; I guess it would be.” 
The boy backed away gingerly. “I must hurry 

45 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


home. I haven’t thought much about it, but I 
guess you’re right. I—Well, so long.” 

Praska shook his head. Even “Me, too, 
Johnny,” made haste to get away from him. 
Laughing ruefully, he shifted his suit case to the 
other hand and went his way down the long 
station platform. 

Three mornings later Room 13 assembled to 
report for a new school day. A contagious rest¬ 
lessness communicated itself along the rows of 
desks. The long-drawn-out argument over candi¬ 
dates—an argument that solved nothing and got 
no place—had begun to produce an impatient 
and nervous uncertainty. Mr. Banning had 
watched these symptoms develop not without in¬ 
ward anxiety. He knew the danger. At any mo¬ 
ment there might be a reaction. Listlessness 
might take the place of feverish animation, and 
instead of being interested in candidates the stu¬ 
dents might become indifferent and languid. He 
determined to turn their minds into other chan¬ 
nels. 

“What I have to say,” he said, “must be said 
hurriedly. The first period bell will ring in a mo¬ 
ment. To-morrow we are to hold an election of 
far-reaching importance to this room. Thus far 
not a word has been said about the machinery by 
which this election should be carried out.” 

46 




THE BALLOT IN ROOM 13 


“He hasn’t heard George,” said Hammond in 
an audible undertone. 

“Has somebody been discussing the subject?” 
the teacher asked innocently. “Good! Then 
you’ll be prepared to handle the problem intelli¬ 
gently. Suppose we meet here after classes to¬ 
day and decide how the election shall be con¬ 
ducted? It that agreeable to you? Speak up 
if it isn’t. Fine! This afternoon then. There 
goes the bell.” 

Praska’s first period took him to the basement 
for manual training. As he worked at his lathe 
there were times when his mind wandered far 
from the pattern before him. On the way out of 
Room 13 he had caught some of the students 
looking at him curiously, and some of them had 
been smiling. Johnny Baffin had worn his char¬ 
acteristic air of baffled indecision. 

Praska’s mind was suddenly made up. Judg¬ 
ing by the sentiment he had found, the plan he 
would offer would have no chance. But he de¬ 
termined now to offer it. He felt that he was 
right, and refused to be silenced by the spectre 
of defeat. This much settled, his attention came 
back to the work in hand. 

During lunch hour in the cafeteria, Perry King 
approached his table and spoke in a guarded un¬ 
dertone. 


47 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“You’re not going to talk prepared ballots and 
all that rot, are you?” 

The guard nodded. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you. You’ve been a 
three-ringed pest on this thing, George, but a lot 
of the fellows are going to vote for you for class 
president. You’ll just about kill your chances if 
you sing that song again to-day.” 

Praska ate in silence. Perry, construing this 
as acceptance of his own logic, was intensely 
gratified. 

“I thought you’d be sensible about it,” he said. 

“How do you know a lot of the fellows are 
going to vote for me?” 

“How do I know? Now, that’s a question, 
isn’t it? Haven’t I been campaigning for you? 
Haven’t I lined up about enough votes to put you 
over? I’ve done a job on this, I’ll have you 
know.” 

“Getting to be a regular politician, aren’t 
you?” 

Perry swelled out his thin chest. “I’m going to 
make the talk in favor of having everybody just 
write his choice.” 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to fight you on that. I’m 
still for a formal ballot.” 

The wind of optimism was knocked from Perry 
in a breath. His eyes, incredulous, searched his 

48 




THE BALLOT IN ROOM IS 


friend’s face. There could be no mistaking its 
single purpose. 

“That’s a fine way to treat me after what I’ve 
been trying to do for you,” he cried indignantly, 
unconscious that his voice had risen above the 
babble of the diners. “You’re making a goat of 
yourself if you want to know what I think. You’ll 
kill your chances. Everybody’ll be saying you’re 
just a pig-headed pirate.” 

Praska, used to these temperamental outbursts, 
shook his head patiently. “I haven’t been a can¬ 
didate. Anyway, if I believe ballot is the only 
way-” 

But Perry, after the manner of one whose best 
efforts had been shamefully flouted, walked away 
among the tables in dudgeon. 

After classes that day the home room gathered. 
The students brought books with them and car¬ 
ried their hats to their seats. Plainly they felt 
that they were of one mind, and that the business 
they were to transact would take but a moment. 
The meeting moved briskly. In the absence of 
regular officers, Mr. Banning was delegated to 
act as chairman. There were whispered calls of 
“Perry! Perry! Make it snappy.” Perry ad¬ 
dressed the chair. 

“I believe,” Perry said easily, “that I express 
the sentiment of the room when I say that we’d 

49 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


like a rule giving each student permission simply 
to write his pick for each office. In that way 
they will have perfect freedom of choice. If I 
think John Jones is the best we have for president 
or secretary, or sergeant-at-arms I simply vote for 
him for the office I think he ought to have. That 
is the only way to have the election take the 
widest and freest range.” 

Praska, watching Perry, envied him the con¬ 
fident, casual way he spoke. Perry had in him, 
he thought, the making of an orator. But he 
shook his head slightly at his friend’s reasoning. 

“We think,” Perry went on, “in a case like this 
we ought to have a chance to vote for whom we 
please and not be tied down by tickets. We want 
an election, not red tape.” 

His gaze, as he sat down, went over to Praska. 
Somebody chuckled, and then the sound was lost 
in a round of applause. Plainly, the room was 
with Perry. His gaze, going to Praska again in 
triumph, was stayed by the sight of the big guard 
rising somewhat ponderously from his seat. 

“Mr. Chairman.” 

A subdued, good-natured groan ran about the 
room. 

“Mr. Praska,” Mr. Banning said gravely. 

“I, for one, am opposed to the plan that— 
that has just been offered.” Praska was having 

50 





THE BALLOT IN BOOM 13 


trouble with his words. “The United States has 
been doing business for a good many years, and 
I think if we try to improve on the Government 
we’re not going to get very far. The trouble 
with Perry’s plan is that it—it—it’s too uncer¬ 
tain. Nobody knows who’s a candidate. The 
votes will be scattered all over. A lot of fellows 
may just vote for friends, and then somebody may 
walk in as president merely because seven or 
eight fellows happen to agree on him. That 
won’t be—” Praska was plainly stuck for the 
right word. 

“Representative government,” somebody sug¬ 
gested. 

“Representative government,” Praska accepted 
earnestly. “It will be minority government. I 
don’t know whether I’m right or not, but I think 
the United States has the regular printed ballots 
so that the voters will know just who are seeking 
the office and can study their qualifications. 
That’s getting right down to real candidates. 
This thing that Perry wants to do is like shooting 
in the dark. It’s a grab bag. I think we ought 
to have candidates file petitions, and not to ac¬ 
cept petitions unless they have at least five sign¬ 
ers.” 

This last proposal was new to the room. There 
was a moment of shocked surprise. 

51 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“Why five signers?” Hammond asked belliger¬ 
ently. 

“Well-” George hesitated. “If a fellow 

can’t get five students to sign his petition 
he wouldn’t get five votes. That means he’d 
simply clog up the ballot and take strength from 
the real candidates. This election is a big thing 
for Room 13 and I’d like to see it go right.” 

There was no applause as he sat down, but 
now two or three of the students appeared 
thoughtful. Perry, not quite so sure of himself 
as he had been before, asked Mr. Banning to ex¬ 
press an opinion, but the teacher smiled and shook 
his head. His policy, he told them, was to let 
them handle their own affairs without interfer¬ 
ence so long as he could. But even as he said it, 
his glance, with its fire of idealism, went to 
Praska and lingered. 

The football guard had no false conceptions 
of what was to follow. No one offered another 
plan, and the matter went to a vote. 

“All those who are in favor of the method as 

outlined by Mr. King-” Mr. Banning began, 

and there was a clatter and rattle of seats as the 
students came to their feet. Johnny Baffin hesi¬ 
tated until he saw the overwhelming sway of 
sentiment, and then joined the crowd. 

Nine boys remained seated, stoically unmind- 

52 






THE BALLOT IN ROOM IS 


ful of nudges and whispers from their compan¬ 
ions. Praska’s heart leaped. Nine who saw it 
as he did! He had lost his cause, but he had 
made converts. He had made progress. Next 
year, as time for the election drew near, there 
would be ten instead of one to talk in favor of a 
formal, regular ballot. 

“Mr. King’s plan carries,” said Mr. Banning, 
“52 to 10.” 

There were cheers for the result, and some 
humorous banter for Praska. He sat unmoved. 
After that the meeting decided to vote next day 
during the luncheon hour. A committee of three 
was named to count the votes. Praska was se¬ 
lected as chairman of this committee and scarcely 
took note of the honor. He was still thinking 
of those nine recruits. 

Out in the street Perry reproached him openly 
and bitterly. “Didn’t I tell you if you stuck up 
your head you’d get a good licking? Do you 
think a defeat like that will help your chances 
for president?” 

“I wasn’t thinking of president.” 

“And then, all this talk of grab bags-” 

“How many fellows have a chance to-mor¬ 
row?” Praska interrupted. 

“How should I know?” 

“Then it will be a grab bag. Nobody knows 

53 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


what surprises may come out of it. Why, some¬ 
body that three-quarters of the fellows have never 
given a thought may bob up as the winner.” 

“Rats!” Perry said in disgust. “This thing 
has gone to your head. Your wheels are loose.” 

“Possibly,” Praska said mildly. He was look¬ 
ing toward the school entrance where “Me, too, 
Johnny” was just coming out. “Possibly,” the 
guard said again, but this time merely because 
the word lingered on his tongue. He continued 
to stare absently after Johnny as that boy walked 
up the street; the germ of a bewildering and 
startling idea had begun to turn and twist itself 
slowly through the recess of his mind. 

That night, after much thinking, the germ de¬ 
veloped into a plan. 

Next morning he came to school subtly and 
mysteriously changed. The habitual air of seri¬ 
ousness that marked him was gone, and in its 
stead was a gay, bubbling quality that suggested 
that he was filled with some inward vision of 
mirth. To one of deep and sharp penetration, 
it would have been apparent that the rollicking 
mood was forced—but Perry, who met him out¬ 
side the high school building, was neither deep 
nor sharp. 

“Believe me,” he said with feeling, “Pm glad 
to see your old sober-sides looking human. I was 

54 




THE BALLOT IN ROOM 13 


beginning to think you’d keep up that election 
argument all through the semester. I’m a friend 
of yours and all that, George, but you are a tire¬ 
some old pest when you start reforming and 
that’s flat.” 

Praska merely glanced at him and smiled con¬ 
templatively. 

“What are you looking at me that way for? 
What’s the joke?” 

Praska looked about him guardedly. Perry’s 
interest was quickened. 

“What’s it all about, George? Something 
good? Something in the wind?” 

Praska spoke in an undertone. “Want to have 
a laugh out of this election? Oh, nothing that 
will spoil it; just something that will get the 
whole crowd?” 

Perry was eager. “What is it?” 

“Vote for ‘Me, too, Johnny’ for president.” 

“Johnny Baffin!” Perry’s voice was incredu¬ 
lous. 

“Johnny Baffin,” Praska said calmly. 

Perry, usually deft with words, was for the mo¬ 
ment speechless. But as the thing he was asked 
to do broke upon him he began to shake his head. 

“I’m going to vote for you. Why should I 
throw away a vote?” 

“But nobody is going to win this election by 

55 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


r - 1 " - ' 1 ' - ~ 1 1 - .- ■ ■ ■ ■ - - - - 

one vote. You know that. What difference does 
one vote make?” 

Older persons than Perry have been fooled 
with that same question. He waivered. There 
might, he thought, be something in what the 
guard said. And then Praska leaned closer. 

“Can’t you picture it, Perry? Just one vote 
in the whole box for Johnny. It will be a scream. 
The whole room will be flabbergasted. ‘Me-too- 
Johnny’ voted for president. Good night!” 

All at once Perry shook with laughter. Lines 
that had formed themselves in Praska’s forehead 
—lines of apprehension—began to clear. 

“Won’t it be rich, though? I’ll do it; one vote 
won’t matter. Wait until I tell-” 

Praska’s hand closed on his arm. “Tell noth¬ 
ing. Do you want to spoil it? You’ll tell some¬ 
body, and he’ll tell somebody else, and then every¬ 
body’ll know it. Then what’s left of our joke? 
Just you and me, Perry, and we’ll sit back and 
watch the room when the vote is announced. It 
will be as good as a circus.” 

“I won’t tell a soul,” Perry promised. “ ‘Me, 
too, Johnny’—Boy, I just want to sit back and 
watch them. Circus? It will be a riot.” 

In the lower corridor Praska mixed with the 
crowd, talking and laughing more than he usually 
did. He set more than one passing group into a 

56 





THE BALLOT IN ROOM 13 


roar by hurling some unexpectedly humorous com¬ 
ment at some one of them. Whenever he stopped 
to talk to any boy, he left that individual chuck¬ 
ling. Hammond fairly shouted at something 
Praska had said. “Old George is actually getting 
funny,” the football captain explained. And 
Praska continued to laugh and joke—with sober 
eyes. 

At noon Miss Quigley, domestic science teacher 
in charge of the cafeteria, expressed the opinion 
that there was “Something the matter with those 
Room 13 boys.” They ordered scanty lunches, 
ate rapidly, and at once departed. Somebody 
had brought a hat box that morning, and Praska 
and his assistants had slit a hole in the top and 
had placed it on Mr. Banning’s desk to serve as a 
ballot box. Perry was the first student to vote. 
He slipped his ballot through the opening and 
winked at the football guard. Just at that mo¬ 
ment it dawned on him that if Praska merely 
wanted to see only one vote cast for Johnny Baffin 
he could have cast the ballot himself. He went 
back to his seat a bit perplexed. 

Then came a deluge of folded papers dropped 
through the slit in the box. The students, crowd¬ 
ing in line, filed past and voted as their names, 
were checked. In fifteen minutes the last ballot 
had been cast. Mr. Banning looked at his watch. 

57 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“We have thirty minutes before the first after¬ 
noon period,” he said. “It is your desire to have 
the vote counted now or after classes?” 

“Now,” came a chorus from the seats. 

Praska, as chairman of the tellers, picked up 
the box; flanked by his two committee members, 
he walked from the room. The door closed after 
him. There was a moment of dead silence. 

“They ought to be back in about ten minutes,” 
said a voice. 

But ten minutes passed, and there was no sign 
of the committee. Perry, secure in the knowledge 
of the thunderclap that was soon to come, first 
smiled and then began to chuckle. A vote for 
“Me, too, Johnny I” And who would be more 
surprised than Johnny Baffin himself? He pic¬ 
tured the blank amazement of the others, and 
began to chuckle again—and then the chuckle 
stopped. The door had opened, and the tellers 
were coming in with the result. 

One look at their faces, and Perry sat bolt up¬ 
right in his seat. Two of the tellers were plainly 
dazed. One of them, catching the eye of a friend, 
threw up his hand in a tragic gesture of despair. 
Praska, with the vote tabulation in one hand and 
the hat box under the other arm, alone of the 
three seemed placid and serene. Watching him, 
Perry felt a sudden shaft of icy apprehension. 

58 




THE BALLOT IN ROOM 13 


“Mr. Banning,” said Praska, “the committee 
asks you to announce the result.” 

Mr. Banning took the tabulation. The room 
was still. The teacher of civics looked at it, 
stared, looked again and held the paper a bit 
closer to his eyes. Then his gaze came up to sur¬ 
vey the class. Twice he coughed as though to 
clear his throat. 

“For president of Room 13,” he said, “John 
Baffin received 15 votes, George Praska 13, 
Frank Hammond 7-” 

Perry heard no more. All at once the plan 
dawned on him. Why, Praska had asked a lot 
of fellows to vote for “Me, too, Johnny.” The 
stillness had now become a profound and breath¬ 
less silence. 

Mr. Banning was reading the vote for the 
other offices; but now nobody heard him. The 
tension was broken by a choking sound. A mur¬ 
mur ran through the room like an unexpected 
wind rustling through startled reeds. It grew, 
died, and grew again. Mr. Banning finished read¬ 
ing, folded the paper slowly and laid it on his 
desk. His glance went to Praska. The football 
guard looked the other way. And then Mr. Ban¬ 
ning understood. 

The room was beginning to recover. It was 
a room athrob with consternation, but it had its 

59 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


sense of loyalty. A voice cried the summons for 
a cheer. It started as a weak straggle, gained 
volume, and finished with a burst of sound. A 
cry went up for “Speech! Speech!” This was 
followed by the chant “We want Johnny Baffin! 
We want Johnny Baffin!” 

Johnny stumbled to his feet. If consternation 
was the portion of the others, stupefaction was 
his. He looked blank, abashed, almost fright¬ 
ened. The fingers of one hand played nervously 
with the buttons on his coat. 

“I think,” he began with trembling voice, “that 

there must be a mistake-” 

“Not a bit of it,” roared a voice. Oh, but the 
room was rising to scratch beautifully. 

“There is a mistake,” Johnny cried, for once 
in his life positive. “I don’t want to be president. 
I wouldn’t know how to do things. This is all 
Praska’s work. He came to my house last night, 
and he got to talking about ballots—you know 
how he is when he starts talking something like 
that—and he said it was a mistake because any¬ 
body might win, and I said I knew I wouldn’t win 
because I wouldn’t even vote for myself because 
I’d mess everything if I were president. And then 
he said he could go out and get me enough votes 
to elect me. I didn’t know what he would do, and 
I was afraid he might do something, and I told 

60 





THE BALLOT IN ROOM 13 


him if he got me all the votes I wouldn’t be presi¬ 
dent.” 

Johnny had run out of breath. The room, 
leaning forward so as not to miss a word, waited 
for him to go on. 

“Then Praska said ‘You don’t think you could 
get a vote. Now, if I got you a lot of votes 
wouldn’t that prove that the way this election is 
being run, fellows could cook up something and 
win with a secret candidate ?’ I said yes, I guessed 
that would prove it. He said none of us wanted 
that kind of an election, and I said no, we didn’t. 
And he asked me if he could try to get votes for 
me just to show how things can happen. I told 
him he could, but I only told him that because I 
didn’t think he’d get any, and I told him I 
wouldn’t be president if he did get me the votes. 

“He went away then, and came back after a 
while, and said perhaps he ought to drop it be¬ 
cause he was going to get votes by making the 
fellows think they were playing a joke on me and 
maybe that wouldn’t be square to me. I told him 
I didn’t care what he did because he wouldn’t 
get any votes anyway. And then he went away 
again.” 

“That was like George,” Perry reflected, “go¬ 
ing back and trying to tell Johnny just what he 
meant to say. And I’ll bet Johnny was sick and 

61 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


tired of ballots and wouldn’t listen to him. 
George wouldn’t go out and humiliate a fellow 
just to get a laugh.” He stared at the ceiling 
and called himself a fool. 

“I told Praska I wouldn’t be president,” 
Johnny went on. “You can ask him. I can’t do 
the things a president would have to do. I must— 
I must—.” He stuttered and paused, unable to 
find the word. 

“You mean you’re going to decline?” came 
from the rear of the room. 

“Decline,” he said eagerly; “that’s it. Yes; I 
want to decline. I—I’m not the kind of fellow 
to be president.” 

They gave Johnny another cheer then—not a 
cheer of thanksgiving because he would not take 
the place, but a cheer of appreciation. There 
was an unexpected manliness about his speech, and 
it had won them. Praska, watching the room, 
heaved a breath of relief, ar d a worry that had 
tormented him vanished. The fellows would 
never tell Johnny the real reason they had voted 
for him. Not one of them would hurt his feel¬ 
ings. 

“This,” said Mr. Banning, “is rather an un¬ 
usual state of affairs. It would seem that the 
next highest candidate for president-” 

“Mr. Chairman,” said Praska, “I cannot con- 

62 





THE BALLOT IN BOOM IS 


sider myself the choice of the room. I received 
only thirteen votes. Therefore, I, too, must de¬ 
cline to serve. I think that the only fair way to 
clear up this situation would be to hold another 
election. If we are to discuss how that election 
.is to be held-” 

“Do you think it necessary?” Mr. Banning 
asked dryly. 

Praska was persistent. “In any event,” he 
said, “I move you that we elect a week from to¬ 
day, that every candidate file a formal petition 
by next Thursday, and that the room typewrite 
an official ballot and make it the only ballot that 
can be voted.” 

He stood there by the teacher’s desk and every 
eye was on him—eyes that accused, and berated, 
and threatened, and yet were a bit proud of him. 
All over the room boys were stampeding noisily 
to their feet and demanding instant recognition 
from the chair. But it was Perry King who won 
the floor. 

“I guess,” he said, “that we can see the point 
when somebody sticks it into us. I second the 
motion.” 

“It has been moved and seconded,” said Mr. 
Banning—and proceeded to state the motion, very 
deliberately. There was a quizzical look on his 
face all the time that threatened to become a 

63 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


broad smile as he asked “Is there any discus¬ 
sion?” 

“He’s got a joke on all of us somehow,” whis¬ 
pered Littlefield, the end, to Hammond, the cap¬ 
tain. “He looks like a cat that’s swallowed a 
canary and is just ready to burst into song.” 

“Shut up, foolish!” Hammond rebuked him. 
“Look who’s up wanting to talk. Bet it’s the 
first time little Danny Dunn ever talked in meet¬ 
ing in his life.” 

Hammond was right. Danny had never so 
far mastered his bashfulness before. But some¬ 
thing in Mr. Banning’s deliberation and his quizzi¬ 
cal smile had struck the boy as a challenge that 
could not be ignored; and there he was on his 
feet, forgetting to address the chair, stammering 
and hesitating, but somehow getting out words 
that brought a look of keen satisfaction to Mr. 
Banning’s face. 

“But, fellows,” little Dunn was saying, “you 
don’t have to go to such a lot of work as Praska’s 
prepared ballot just to make elections safe. 
There’s an easier way. You can-” 

“Aw, cut it out, Danny,” interrupted a voice. 
“We’re kind of fed up on easy ways. I’m for—” 

“Order in the room. Mr. Dunn has the floor,” 
came from the Chair. 

“There’s an easier way,” Danny’s embarrassed 

64 





THE BALLOT IN ROOM 13 


voice persisted. “I don’t know why I didn’t think 
of it sooner, or why some of you didn’t. It never 
came into my head until last night when I was 
talking to Dad about the election and Praska’s 
wanting a prepared ballot, and Dad reminded me 
of the easier way and guyed me for being such 
a bonehead I hadn’t thought of it myself.” 

“We’ll all be dead before Danny gets down 
to telling his easy way,” muttered Littlefield to 
Hammond. “Say, look at Mr. Banning. He’s 
hep right now to what Danny’s trying to tell.” 

“Shut up,” growled Hammond again. 

Dunn was rushing on. “There aren’t so very 
many of us, only about sixty. Why don’t we just 
have nominations in open meeting, and then when 
we get enough good men put up, we can close 
the nominations. That’s a lot less trouble than 
a prepared ballot, and it’s almost as good for a 
small group.” 

Praska, slow to think, had no immediate an¬ 
swer to this unexpected challenge, but Perry, still 
standing, bowed imperturbably, and said: “Mr. 
Chairman!” 

“Mr. King!” 

“I’m in favor of putting Mr. Praska’s motion 
to the vote. And I hope it will carry, too. I 
realize that Mr. Dunn has suggested another very 
safe way of conducting elections, but it isn’t quite 

65 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


so good as Mr. Praska’s because it doesn’t give 
you so long to think over candidates, and it 
doesn’t provide against electing a man who 
doesn’t want the job and won’t take it. Of 
course, if the man is at the meeting, he can de¬ 
clare that he won’t be a candidate, but suppose 
he isn’t at the meeting? I know that wouldn’t 
happen more than about twice in a lifetime, but 
now I’m all for the very safest kind of nomina¬ 
tions and elections there is on the market as far as 
Room 13 is concerned.” 

Perry paused and a hearty round of applause 
told him that he had the majority in the room 
with him. Several, however, were grinning at 
him meaningly. Among those were the nine who 
had voted with Praska for a prepared ballot. 

“All right, grin,” Perry snapped at them, for¬ 
getful again of time and place. “I’ll admit 
George showed us something about playing safe 
that we needed to know, but just the same he had 
to lie to do it—told a whole bunch of us that 
each was the one to cast just one vote for Baffin, 
and that only he and the fellow who was to do 
the job would know anything about the plan.” 

“So he did,” murmured Hammond. 

Perry plunged on. “You’re some thinker, 
George Praska; I’ll admit that. And you’re some 
liar, tool” 


66 




THE BALLOT IN ROOM 13 


“Mr. Chairman!” Praska was on his feet, 
flushed, dead earnest. “King got this wrong. I’m 
no liar. If you call me a liar, then you’ve got 
to call all actors liars because what they say on 
the stage isn’t so. All I did was to act a part to 
make clear an idea that I hadn’t been able to 
get across to the crowd in any other way.” He 
turned to Perry, his eyes hurt. “You’ll have to 
take that back,” he said very quietly. 

“I sure will.” Perry was a quick thinker— 
he had followed Praska’s argument and his 
response came instantly and with a heartiness 
that took the hurt out of Praska’s eyes. 

With sublime indifference to conventional par¬ 
liamentary procedure the two shook hands 
warmly. 

“George,” said Perry, “you’re a schemer, and 
a plotter, and a betrayer, and a conspirator—but 
you’re as straight as a string, and you’ve got the 
best bean of any of us. I guess we’ll have to 
elect you president.” 

From the back of the room came the voice of 
the football captain. “Yes,” Hammond boomed, 
“I’d like to boil you in oil, George, but I guess 
we’ll have to elect you.” 


67 




CHAPTER III 


THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 

L ITTLEFIELD, the right end, sang as 
he dressed. The alarm clock on the dres¬ 
ser in his bedroom marked the hour of 
half-past seven. There were dabs and smears 
of ink upon the crystal; they gave the glass the 
droll look of a face overcome with surprise. 
Probably, had the clock been able to speak, it 
would have expressed amazement. Littlefield, 
out of bed at half-past seven and combing his 
blond hair with critical exactness, was a trans¬ 
formation of such recent birth as still to be a mat¬ 
ter of wonder. 

“For I’m to be Queen of the May,” the right 
end warbled, and grinned at his reflection in the 
mirror. A final sweep of the brush, a last twirl 
of the comb, and the job was done. The accom¬ 
plishment seemed to fill him with a feeling of 
humor. He broke into satirical song: 

Oh, ’twas not like that in the olden days 
That are gone beyond recall; 

In the rare old, fair old golden days, 

It was not like that at all- 

68 



THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


No; it had not been. Time was, not so very 
long ago, when Littlefield’s day had started with 
a last minute scramble from under the bed cover¬ 
ings, had progressed to a feverish toilet, and had 
reached its climax in a mad scamper to report 
to his home room at the Northfield High School 
on time. Somebody had once remarked—it may 
have been Perry King—that Littlefield usually 
took a minute to dress and looked it. His trous¬ 
ers ran to baggy knees; shirt, collar and tie were 
discarded in favor of a faded sweater emblazoned 
with the purple N of Northfield. The sweater, 
Littlefield was given to explaining, was his best 
friend. It saved bother. He stood forth as a 
lovable, good-natured, careless, untidy young 
man! 

And then the home rooms had each sent a com¬ 
mittee to meet as a tentative Congress of the 
whole school. Littlefield, in his baggy trousers 
and his sweater, had gone to the gathering as 
one of the representatives of Room 13. He sat 
in the Congress among boys neatly and soberly 
dressed, supremely indifferent to his own attire. 
His interest was centered on the discussion of the 
best way to preserve order in the halls. One by 
one, as the delegates spoke, he abstractedly noted 
them. Then at last his turn came to express an 
opinion. He had something definite to say; but 

69 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


as he arose from his seat, stretching out his tall, 
athletic figure, he was all at once struck with the 
contrast of his rumpled sweater and wrinkled 
trousers. For the first time he saw himself with 
a truthful, critical eye, and his judgment wrote 
him down as slouchy. 

“What room, please?” the presiding officer 
asked crisply. 

“Room 13,” he said, and flushed painfully. He 
was trying to draw back the sweater at the sides 
so that the part exposed through his open coat 
would be smooth. Embarrassment settled over 
him. He became disconcerted. The words he 
had been marshaling to score his point fled his 
recollection. He stumbled, stammered, and was 
lost. When he at last sat down after two minutes 
of torture it was with the conviction that he had 
made a mess of his entire argument. 

When the meeting was over, he went quietly 
from the room. Perry King followed him to the 
hall. Perry, as usual, was brutally frank. 

“What in thunder got into you to-day, Lit? 
When you stood up I thought I was going to hear 
something. Before you got through I was 
ashamed that you and I were there from the same 
room. I’d have liked to wish you on somebody 
else. What happened?” 

Littlefield shrugged his shoulders. 

70 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


“Stage fright, I guess,” Perry concluded. “They 
say every speaker gets it sometimes. You always 
give a good talk when you stand up in our room.” 

“I guess it was stage fright,” said Littlefield. 
But he knew better. He had been conscious of 
a shortcoming, and the knowledge had robbed 
him of the gift of logical debate. On the way 
home he stopped and surveyed himself in the 
mirrored window of a clothing store. He looked 
chunky and hulking. A fine formidable appear¬ 
ance for the football field; but the Congress of 
Northfield High had met in the science lecture 
room. He pulled his cap down over his eyes and 
walked on. 

Next day he came to school with his trousers 
creased. The sweater had been discarded. In 
its place he wore a soft shirt and a knitted tie. 

“What’s the matter with the sweater?” Perry 
King had demanded. 

“Getting its annual bath,” Littlefield had an¬ 
swered laconically. He never wore the sweater 
into a classroom again. 

He was thinking of all this as he dressed that 
morning. The grin left his face, and into his 
eyes came a steady look of contemplation. Some¬ 
how, the processes that had given him a sense of 
the fitness of things had endowed him with some 
of the traits of maturity. He felt in his veins, 

71 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


at that moment, the dawning of manhood. It 
sobered him. Cross currents of thought were at 
work. Now he would have all the prankishness 
of a boy; on the instant he would change and be 
cast in the manner of a man grown serious and 
thoughtful. 

He ate a leisurely breakfast, and had time to 
walk to school as befitted one who felt so changed, 
or changing. Reaching the street on which the 
school stood, he frowned across at the imposing 
building of brick and stone. The roadway had 
once been of smooth macadam, but time had 
wrought decay. There were holes and ruts in the 
pavement; ridges and patches where the bare 
earth showed. 

“They ought to fix this street,” Littlefield re¬ 
flected; and started across. It had rained hard 
the night before, and the holes were filled with 
water; and where the water ended, streaks of 
mud began. The right end picked his way gin¬ 
gerly. One freshly shined shoe, getting into the 
mud, was suddenly smeared. One heel, slapping 
into a pool of water, sprayed the trouser leg. 
Littlefield, muttering in anger, mounted the other 
sidewalk and strode, mud-dappled, into the 
school. 

He was early. The corridors were practically 
deserted. But up in Room 13 he found George 

72 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


Praska reading. The book was “The American¬ 
ization of Edward Bok.” 

“Look at this,” Littlefield cried indignantly. 

Praska surveyed the havoc the mud had 
wrought. 

“You’re president of this room, aren’t you?” 

Praska nodded. 

“Well, why don’t you do something about it? 
Why isn’t that street fixed? It’s right in front 
of our school. We ought to be able to do some¬ 
thing. It’s our street. Why can’t we do some¬ 
thing?” 

“Well—” Praska’s slow speech stopped. 
“Why can’t we?” 

“That’s what I want to know. What’s the use 
of a fellow shining his shoes if he’s going to be all 
muddy when he gets here ? Might just as well be 
muddy when he leaves home. Mr. Banning’s 
always talking about the voice of the people and 
what power it has. We’re people, aren’t we? 
Why can’t we have a voice about that street?” 

“Maybe we can,” said Praska. 

“How?” 

But the president of Room 13 did not know. 
A frown of perplexity had settled between his 
eyes. There must be a way. Mr. Banning had 
said that in a Republic it was always possible for 
the people to express their will. But how? Even 

73 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


as he debated this, Perry and Hammond came 
into the room expressing their distaste for mud 
in general and one street of Northfield in partic¬ 
ular. 

“I was just telling Praska that he ought to do 
something about it,” Littlefield broke in. “Look 
at me I” 

“Look at me” said Hammond in disgust. 

“Oh, rats,” said Perry. “What can Praska 
do? What can any of us do? It’s up to the City 
Council, and a fat lot they’d care about what 
some high school students thought.” 

“How do you know they wouldn’t care?” 
Praska asked absently. The germ of an idea 
was in his mind, but even as he tried to grasp 
it, it fled and left him bewildered. Yet, in that 
instant, he knew that he had seen the way, had 
lost it—and would see it again. 

At noon he left the school building and stood 
looking at the street. Here and there some of 
the pools were dry; but the deep ruts still held 
water, and the mud had been tracked in every 
direction. He had never noticed before that the 
street itself spoiled the imposing appearance of 
the school. “Sloppy,” he said, and went back to 
the building and up the stairs to Room 13. Pres¬ 
ently, at his desk, he began to write. Twice he 
tore up paper, and began again. At length he 

74 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


went downstairs with what he had written, and 
tacked it to the bulletin board just inside the en¬ 
trance. The notice read: 


MUD I 

Will the students who have been inconven¬ 
ienced by the condition of Nelson Avenue in 
front of the school sign their names to this 
and succeeding sheets? 

George Praska, 

Pres. Home Room 13. 

Afterwards he could not explain why he had 
placed the notice on the board. He knew, in¬ 
stinctively, that it had something to do with the 
way that he had glimpsed and had lost. 

Littlefield came to him just before afternoon 
classes started. “I knew you’d think of some¬ 
thing, George. What’s in the wind?” 

“I don’t know,” Praska confessed frankly. 
“You don’t know? What’s the use of putting 
up a notice if you don’t know what it’s for?” 

“Just fishing,” George answered. And then 
in an instant, the vision was back again. He 
knew now why he had written the notice. He 
turned again to Littlefield; but the end, disgusted, 
had taken himself off. 

From what comment Praska heard in the cor- 

75 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


ridors between classes he knew that he had caught 
the interest of the school. Students stopped him 
and asked him what it was all about; he smiled, 
and parried, and told them nothing. Mr. Quirk, 
teacher of English V, had once remarked that the 
best way to keep suspense alive was to veil a sit¬ 
uation with mystery. Even Perry King was re¬ 
pulsed, and stalked off in a temper. 

“You’re putting on airs,” he said angrily. 
“I’m one of the delegates to the Congress, and 
yet when I’m asked about this I’m in the dark. 
It makes me look like a fool.” 

George sighed. To tell Perry would be akin 
to shouting the tidings from the manual training 
rooms in the basement to the auditorium on the 
top floor. Perry had never quite outgrown an 
itch to impress others with how much he knew. 
The president’s tone became conciliatory. 

“Tell them they’ll have to wait until to-mor¬ 
row.” 

Perry looked at him suspiciously. “All right,” 
he grumbled. “That will let me save my face, 
anyway. But if you make a fozzle of this don’t 
think you’re going to drag the rest of Room 13 
in with you.” 

“I won’t,” George promised meekly. It had 
begun to dawn on him that a petition of protest 
would mean nothing unless it carried a formid- 

76 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


able list of names. Suppose only a handful of 
students signed the notice he had placed on the 
board. 

But when he took the list down at four o’clock 
that afternoon his heart gave a leap of exulta¬ 
tion. As he walked home, he counted the signa¬ 
tures. Two hundred and thirteen. A great hope 
grew and grew within him. This would be a 
voice with no faltering note—a voice mighty with 
the strength of the numbers behind it—the voice 
of the people of Northfield High. He decided 
that in the morning he would go to Mr. Banning 
with the plan. But a fever for instant action was 
upon him. He would compose the petition at 
once. Common sense told him that he might 
only be wasting time, that Mr. Banning would 
probably write the document himself. Yet the 
demand to do something, at once, could not be 
ignored. 

It was almost five o’clock when he sat down at 
the study table in his bedroom to write; the elec¬ 
tric light above the table was lighted and his fa¬ 
ther was home before he penned the last word. 
With an odd agitation he read what he had writ¬ 
ten. This was Northfield High School speaking, 
the voice of its people. Suddenly he stood up. 
He would tell the story to his father, show him 
the petition. He picked up the written sheets of 
paper and bolted for the door. 

77 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Downstairs he found his father, busy with 
wrench and screw driver, repairing a kitchen fau¬ 
cet that had begun to leak. Mail that had come 
in the evening delivery was scattered about upon 
the dining-room table. A yellow card of some 
kind was uppermost. George picked it up. It 
was an unsigned, unfilled application for member¬ 
ship in the Fifth Ward Improvement Association 
of Northfield. 

George called into the kitchen to his father. 
“How did you get this improvement association 
application, Pop?” 

“Came in the mail. They want me to join.” 

“Going to?” 

“What’s the use? We’ll get together, and we’ll 
pass resolutions and we’ll send letters to the City 
Hall, and the gang down there will do about as 
they please. That’s how it always runs. If they 
feel like doing what you ask them to do they’ll 
do it, and then some association goes around mak¬ 
ing a fool of itself by thinking that it accom¬ 
plished something. The politicians run things 
to suit themselves. These associations are all 
right for men who have nothing else to do with 
their evenings. I don’t mind becoming a member, 
but I don’t want anybody telling me that we’re 
going to get together and have the politicians 
give us what we want. We’ll get it when they 

78 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


get ready to give it to us and not before. That’s 
how they play the game, and when you try to 
stop them you simply butt your head against a 
stone wall. The Fifth Ward Improvement As¬ 
sociation will get just what the politicians are 
ready to give the Fifth Ward, and nothing else.” 

George’s hot blood had turned to ice. After 
a while his father came to the doorway drying 
his hands with a towel. 

“What are those papers you have there, son? 
Something you wanted to show me?” 

“No, sir,” George said faintly; “just some 
scribbling,” and put the school petition in his 
pocket. 

But the faith that was in him was too deep to 
be long shaken. For months he had sat with Mr. 
Banning, daily in Room 13, at stated intervals 
in the civics classroom. The pure faith of the 
man had been as a flame, and the light had found 
its way into the depth of the boy’s soul. America 
had ceased to be a section of the earth; it had 
become the one land where every man in his own 
right was king of his country’s destiny. “If we 
have good government,” Mr. Banning was wont 
to say, “it is because the people are vigilant and 
demand good government and do their part to 
get it. If we have poor government it is because 
the people are lax. In a Republic such as ours 

79 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


the people are supreme.” Praska had found a 
never-ending thrill in this. He did not merely 
believe that what Mr. Banning said was so. He 
knew it was true. 

And so, as he lay in bed that night, the teach¬ 
er’s words came back to hearten him and warm 
him through. With an instinctive sense of loy¬ 
alty, he did not question what his father had told 
him. He simply felt that his father might feel 
differently if he had had the good fortune to 
be thrown in contact with Mr. Banning. He 
fell asleep at last with his tumult of doubt at rest, 
with the conviction that Mr. Banning somehow 
would solve his problem on the morrow. 

He reached school early the next morning; but 
early as he was the teacher was there before him. 
The man’s eyes appraised him swiftly as he came 
through the doorway of Room 13. 

“What’s it about, George? That posted 
notice?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I thought you’d be around when you got what¬ 
ever you were fishing for.” 

Another teacher, Praska reflected, might have 
demanded to know why he had not been con¬ 
sulted. Somehow, there was never any feeling 
of restraint in bringing a project to Mr. Ban¬ 
ning. 


80 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


The plan that was to do away with mud outside 
the school was soon told. Praska laid the names 
and the petitions on the desk. Mr. Banning did 
not take up the papers. 

“There’d be over two hundred signatures,” the 
boy said. 

The teacher looked at him, and looked away. 

“You don’t like my plan?” Praska was dis¬ 
appointed. “It isn’t worth carrying out?” 

A hand fell on his knee. “I didn’t say that, 
George. Don’t misunderstand me. But a letter, 

or a petition- It’s so easy that it means 

nothing. The postman is forever walking into 
public buildings with letters for elected officials. 
Mr. Citizen feels a sense of outrage at something 
that has happened or has not happened. He 
writes a letter of condemnation. That makes him 
feel better. He has a virtuous feeling that he’s 
done his duty, and then forgets all about it. It 
has taken him two minutes to write the letter. 
You can’t build up citizenship on two-minute 
splurges.” 

“But this is a petition,” Praska said weakly. 

“George,” Mr. Banning said gently, “good 
government in this country could be advanced 
fifty per cent if people would put less faith in pe¬ 
titions and more in personal action. What does 
a petition amount to, as a usual thing? I could 

81 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


take out a petition to-morrow for the appoint¬ 
ment of an official fly-catcher and get enough sig¬ 
natures to it to make it appear formidable. If the 
man you approach believes in the idea, he signs it 
at once. If he’s indifferent, he signs it on the feel¬ 
ing that he’s doing you a favor. If he thinks it 
a fool idea and you argue long enough, he’ll sign 
just to get rid of you. Of course, petitioning 
Congress is a different matter. Most voters live 
long distances from Washington. But in local 
affairs a petition is usually worthless. The City 
Hall knows just how simple a matter it is to get 
people to sign and values the thing accordingly.” 

Praska was crushed. After a moment he rose 
from his chair. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Mr. Banning said cas¬ 
ually, “about two men back in my home town. 
One of them, if he wanted some repairs made, 
would write a letter to the town carpenter and al¬ 
ways end up by saying that he wanted the work 
started at once. Usually the carpenter got around 
to it in two or three weeks. We had another 
man who’d go down to see the carpenter person¬ 
ally and impress upon him the need for haste. 
Usually the carpenter got around to the job in two 
or three days. Queer that it should work out 
that way. Don’t you think so?” 

But George was not interested in the story of 

82 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


the carpenter. The room was beginning to fill 
with students, and he went back to his desk; all 
the high hopes of the night before vanished. Pres¬ 
ently he looked up to find Littlefield standing be¬ 
side him. 

“How’s the secret?” the end asked. His good 
humor had returned. The mud of the street in 
front of the school had dried, the water was 
gone; and as the condition that had aroused his 
antagonism was no longer before his eyes his 
resentment had evaporated. It would not un¬ 
cover itself again until the next storm, and then 
it would disappear again with dry weather. 

“I was going to ask the school to send a peti¬ 
tion to the City Hall,” Praska told him, “but it’s 
off.” 

“Why?” Littlefield was only mildly interested. 

“Mr. Banning thinks petitions don’t amount to 
much.” 

“Well-” Littlefield was moving away. 

“He usually suggests something better, doesn’t 
he?” 

Suddenly Praska sat bolt upright. By and by 
the discouragement that marked him began to 
melt away. The first period bell rang, but in- 
stead of following the crowd to the door he 
walked to Mr. Banning’s desk. 

“We have an assembly period to-morrow,” he 

83 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


began. “Do you think Mr. Rue would give me 
about five minutes for an announcement?” 

“I don’t know.” The teacher gave him another 
swift survey. “I must go to the principal’s office 
this morning. I’ll ask him. Is it any thing im¬ 
portant?” 

“Betterment of school conditions,” said the 
boy. 

“In what way?” 

“Why, I thought-No; it was your thought. 

I’d like to sound out the school on going dow T n- 
town to see the carpenter ” 

“I think it might be arranged,” said Mr. Ban¬ 
ning. 

Next morning the auditorium exercises had 
reached the point that usually meant dismissal; 
but Mr. Rue, on the stage, was clearing his 
throat, and tapping his eye-glasses against the 
fingers of his left hand, and waiting for them to 
settle into quiet. The students shifted uneasily. 

“Mr. George Praska, of Home Room 13,” the 
principal said, “has an announcement to make 
that he thinks will be of general interest. I be¬ 
lieve it comes under the head of school welfare.” 

There was a stirring of feet, a volley of ap¬ 
plause, as Praska left his seat and came down 
one of the aisles. A quality of determination was 
in the set of his shoulders and the measure of his 

84 





THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


stride. Inwardly, he was all atremble, but no 
one would have guessed it from his bearing. He 
disappeared up the stage steps at the side, was; 
momentarily lost to view, and then emerged from 
the wings. The applause began again. 

“The old bulldog!” Littlefield whispered. A 
dawn of comprehension had broken upon him. 
“I might have known he wouldn’t let go if-” 

“Sssh!” came from Perry King. 

“I’ll bet,” Littlefield went on, “that this has 
something to do with-” 

“Forget it,” Perry told him impatiently. “I 
want to hear what this song and dance is all 
about.” 

“I’ve been trying to tell you,” Littlefield said 
plaintively. He sighed and gave it up. Perry’s 
eyes were riveted on the platform. 

“Fellow students of Northfield High-” 

Praska began. 

“Louder, please,” cried a voice. 

Praska increased the volume of his tone. “I 
want to say something about the condition of Nel¬ 
son Avenue outside the school. It isn’t a street; 
it’s a mudhole. After every rain, after snow 
begins to melt, it’s a case of slop and squash 
across. We grumble about it, and then it dries 
and we forget about it until the next storm. 
We’re proud of this school, and I don’t think any 

85 







THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


of us want to track mud into it for days at a time. 
Of course, Nelson Avenue will be repaired some 
day, but we don’t want to wait for some day. 
We want that street fixed now.” 

He had them gripped. He could feel their 
interest. The auditorium was profoundly still. 

“We hear a lot in our civics classes about pub¬ 
lic opinion and the voice of the people. Public 
opinion is nothing until it expresses itself. The 
voice of the people isn’t a voice unless it says 
something. We don’t want mud in Nelson Ave¬ 
nue. Well, let’s say so. We’re people. We have 
voices. Let’s use them. Letters won’t do. 
Neither will petitions. It takes only a second to 
sign a petition. It takes an hour or so to go see 
the proper person and tell him that something’s 
wrong. You can’t get results with seconds; 
you’ve got to spend hours. The way to get a 
thing done is to go and see that it is done. If 
we want Nelson Avenue repaired, we’ve got to 
be the voice of Northfield High—a real voice. 
Why shouldn’t we? It’s our street. My father 
and your father pay for it. My idea is for this 
school to go down to the City Hall in a body and 
ask the City Commissioners to fix that street. A 
petition is only a petition, but going down there 
looks like business. And we’ll mean business.” 

A murmur ran through the auditorium. The 

86 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


school was startled, and showed it plainly. On 
many of the faces that Praska saw, incredulity 
wrote its mark. And then he came down to the 
end of the stage to fight for his vision, as leaders, 
all through the ages, have pleaded and fought 
for theirs. 

“What are you afraid of?” he cried. “The 
home rooms have been showing us how citizens 
do their job. It all means something or it means 
nothing. I think it means something. Anyway, 
here’s a chance for us to find out.” 

Still the boldness of the thing they were asked 
to do held them off. 

“They’d laugh at us,” came a voice. 

“For what?” Praska flashed back. “For our 
public spirit? It is public spirit. We’re working 
for the good of our school and for the good of 
Northfield.” 

The silence this time was thoughtful. 

“Suppose they don’t do what we ask?” It was 
Littlefield who pressed the question. 

“Then we’ll keep going there until they do. 
Where would Northfield have been last Thanks¬ 
giving Day if we had stopped line plunges after 
Harrison High held us for down the first time?” 

He had spoken in terms that every student 
could comprehend. Back under the balcony ap¬ 
plause broke out. It spread up and down the 

87 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


aisles. In a moment the spirit of the auditorium 
had changed. 

“All we’ll ask,” Praska cried, “is for a decent, 
clean street. I’ve given you merely a suggestion. 
It’s up to the home rooms to decide what the 
school will do. But whatever we do, let’s get 
started. Let’s take it up in the home rooms to¬ 
day. Let’s find out where we are. Let’s sound 
out our own public opinion and let’s try out our 
own voice.” 

The applause turned to cheering as he walked 
back to the seat. The school had caught up his 
battle cry. None expected Mr. Rue to comment 
on the situation; Northfield students always had 
opportunity to think for themselves. At a nod 
from the principal the orchestra struck up the 
exit march. Once out in the hall, Littlefield caught 
Praska by the arm. 

“George,” he said earnestly, “you ought to 
take me some place and beat me up. I was the 
first fellow to kick about the mud; and in two 
days the fight was all out of me. I’m with you 
now right to the finish.” 

“You might have let some of us in Room 13 
know what was going on,” Perry complained. 

“I wanted to have the school take hold of it 
all at one time,” Praska explained simply. “If 
we had begun to debate it in Room 13, the other 

88 





THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


rooms would have heard something about it and 
would have begun to take sides without knowing 
what it was all about. This way they’ve got the 
question right before their eyes.” 

“I’ll say they have,” Littlefield announced with 
conviction. 

In the few minutes that remained before the 
start of the next period Room 13 put through a 
resolution to take the school’s demands to the 
City Hall. At 11 o’clock came an outburst of 
cheering from the second floor, to be followed 
by the announcement that Room 10 had voted to 
support Praska. At noon Room 12 paraded to 
the cafeteria carrying a sign reading: 

CLEAN STREETS 

AND A 

CLEAN SCHOOL 


Just as the earlier classes resumed for the af¬ 
ternoon Room 8, a girl’s home room, threw its 
strength to Praska’s course, and the tide of ap¬ 
proval and acclaim became a flood. 

That afternoon the Northfield Congress met 
at short notice. Only two motions were made. 

“Mr. Chairman,” said Perry King, “I move 

89 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


you that this school go down to the City Hall to¬ 
morrow.” 

“Mr. Chairman,” said Littlefield, “I move you 
that George Praska be selected as spokesman for 
the delegation.” 

The resolutions were passed without debate. 
Littlefield stood up again. 

“Mr. Chairman, it strikes me that some may 
have the idea that we won’t be admitted to the 
City Hall. I have some notices here I ran off 
on a typewriter. It might not be a bad idea to 
post one on every bulletin board.” 

The notice was short: 

The Constitution of the United States 
guarantees to citizens the right of peaceful 
assembly. 

Next afternoon eight hundred and fourteen 
students marched out of Northfield High School, 
crossed Nelson Avenue, and turned their faces 
toward the heart of the town. Four abreast, 
they moved along in a solid, silent, serious col¬ 
umn. Women came to the windows of houses 
and looked after them in wonder. Business men 
along Main Street, when they reached that 
thoroughfare, stood in their doorways and asked 
what it was all about. And corner loafers, al¬ 
ways ready to shuffle along with a crowd, trailed 

90 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


behind to see to what goal the procession would 
lead. 

It led to the City Hall, an imposing building 
of gray granite, its walls rising from the top of a 
solid terrace. For a moment the head of the 
line waivered. The solemnity and majesty that 
is part of government in a Republic filled them 
with an instinctive sense of awe. Then Praska 
saw the words chiseled out of the marble above 
the entrance: “THE PEOPLE RULE.” That 
gave him courage, and he led the way into the 
building. 

A wide stairway of stone led to the floors 
above. In front of the stairway was a great open 
space; but vast as was the foyer, the students 
filled it as the lines kept crowding in one upon 
another. Where to go was something of a prob¬ 
lem. Praska looked about him helplessly. Now 
he wished that Mr. Banning or some of the 
teachers had come along; but Mr. Banning had 
told them that it would be best for them to carry 
the ball themselves. 

“What do we do now?” Littlefield whispered 
hoarsely. 

The tramp of sixteen hundred feet on the tiled 
floor had echoed through the building. City em¬ 
ployees came crowding from offices marked “City 
Clerk,” “Tax Collector” and “Department of 

91 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Weights and Measures.” They stood in puzzled 
groups. 

“Who let the kindergarten in?” a voice asked 
with a laugh. 

Praska’s face flushed. 

A man came down the wide stairway, stared 
at them, and abruptly quickened his pace. 

“What is it?” he asked good-naturedly, “a 
riot?” 

“A delegation,” said Praska. 

“Oh! Anybody you want to see in particular?” 

“We want to see the city commissioners.” 

“They don’t meet to-day. If you want to reach 
any individual commissioner-” 

“We want to see about having a street im¬ 
proved.” 

The man gave a low whistle of surprise. “The 
Commissioner of Streets and Public Improve¬ 
ments is your oyster. His office is Room 36, 
third floor. Where are you from?” 

“Northfield High.” 

“The whole school?” 

“Yes, sir. More than eight hundred students.” 

“Caesar’s ghost,” said the man in a startled 
voice. Suddenly he made a break up the stairs, 
only to stop short. “Jim!” he cried and waved 
toward one of the groups of city employees. “Do 
me a favor. Call the Morning Herald and ask 

92 





THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


A—... 

them to jump a photographer here in a hurry.” 
He caught Praska’s eye. “Room 36, third floor,” 
he called, and was gone up the stairs. 

“That fellow’s a newspaper reporter,” Perry 
King said in excitement. 

In the wake of the reporter went the students. 
The lines had been broken; they mounted the 
stairway in one packed mass. The door of Room 
36 had a glass lintel; behind it a voice cried in 
amazement, “You don’t mean it! Eight hun¬ 
dred of them!” Then a shadow showed on the 
glass; the door was thrown open, and the Com¬ 
missioner of Streets and Public Improvements 
stood on the threshold. At sight of the crowd in 
the corridor his eyes opened wide as though here 
was something they had never seen before. 

“I am Commissioner Hunter,” he said doubt¬ 
fully. “Are you sure I am the man you are look¬ 
ing for?” 

“Yes, sir,” George answered positively. “We 
came here as a delegation.” 

“On public business?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Some of the incredulity faded from the offi¬ 
cial’s face. The gravity of those who had packed 
their way into the corridor space outside his office 
was contagious. He still looked upon them with 
wonder, but into his gaze was coming the dawn 

93 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


of comprehending respect. And yet he did not 
quite gage the mettle of these young visitors. 

“What can I do for you?” he asked. 

There was a moment of silence. 

“We come here,” Praska said then, “as citi¬ 
zens of the Northfield High School. We come 
as the voice of the school. We ask for a hearing.” 

“You shall have it,” the Commissioner said 
promptly. “I would invite you into my office, 
but the room is too small. You could not all fit 
into it. If there are no objections we can trans¬ 
act our business out here. Do you come here with 
a complaint?” 

“Yes, sir.” Praska’s voice was earnest. “We 
come to protest against the condition of Nelson 
Avenue in front of the high school. We take 
pride in our school, but we cannot take pride in 
our street. It fills with mud and water after 
every rain, and we have to track through the 
muck to reach the school. We feel that this con¬ 
dition should be corrected, and we have come to¬ 
day to ask you to correct it. I voice the senti¬ 
ment of the entire school.” 

A flurry of handclapping broke out, but was in¬ 
stantly hushed. The delegation, in its sense of 
dignity, in its self-control, expressed its desires 
in a way that was even stronger than Praska’s 
words. Behind the Commissioner’s back the news- 

94 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


paper reporter wrote his notes rapidly, one ear 
cocked so that he would not miss a word of what 
was said. 

Twice Commissioner Hunter cleared his throat, 
but did not speak. His gaze kept running over 
the sea of faces turned anxiously toward him. At 
last: 

“Young man, may I ask your name?” 

“George Praska, sir.” 

“I want to congratulate you on the delegation 
that has accompanied you, and I want to congrat¬ 
ulate the high school for possessing such a fine 
student body. At this moment, I can make no 
binding promises. We will have to look into the 
matter. But I will pledge you that your protest 
will receive the immediate attention of my depart¬ 
ment and, if possible, what you ask will be done. 
Is that satisfactory?” 

Praska turned to the school. “Is it?” 

A roar of approval was their answer. 

And then they began to move toward the stairs, 
and the Commissioner began to shake hands with 
all those whom he could reach. Praska, the near¬ 
est to him, was the last to reach the outdoors. A 
photographer was on the sidewalk focusing a 
camera, and the reporter, standing beside him, 
was crying, “Just a moment, please. We won’t 
detain you but a moment.” Then the shutter 

95 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


clicked, the photographer waved his hands and 
the students flooded down the terrace steps. 

Perry King was strutting a bit with his chest 
out. “Our pictures in the paper. That’s class, 
I’ll tell the world. I hope we’ll be able to recog¬ 
nize the faces.” 

Praska was not thinking of photographs. He 
had come into contact with government in a free 
country and had found it all that he had dreamed 
it to be. 

He came down to the dining room in the morn¬ 
ing to find his father already at breakfast. Mr. 
Praska was reading a newspaper as he ate; now 
and then his eyeglasses came up over the top of 
the page and surveyed his son. There was, about 
his eyes, a shadow of perplexity and unaccustomed 
appraisement. 

“Were you at the City Hall yesterday, 
George?” 

“Yes, sir; the whole school. I wanted to tell 
you about it last night, but Mother said you 
would not be in until late. I guess I was asleep 
when you got home.” 

“There’s a story in the Herald. Care to see 
it?” 

The boy leaped from his chair. The report of 
the school’s visit was on the first page, coupled 
with a three column cut of the delegation. He 

96 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


did not bother to scan the photograph for faces. 
His interest leaped to the type: 

High School Students 

Demand Improvement 

Tell Commissioner Hunter Mud op 
Nelson Avenue Lowers Tone 
op High School 

Eight hundred students of the North- 
field High School, citizens in fact 
though not yet citizens in name, 
yesterday marched to the City Hall in 
a body and protested to Commissioner 
Hunter against the condition of Nel¬ 
son Avenue in front of the high school. 

The delegation was one of the most 
orderly bodies that has ever visited the 
City Hall. Through their spokesman, 

George Praska, they stressed the fact 
that they were not boys and girls, but 
were citizens of the high school on a 
mission of public business. 

They made a strong impression upon 
Commissioner Hunter, “Your protest,” 
he told them, “will receive the imme¬ 
diate attention of my department.” 

There was more of it, and the boy read it 
through to the end. The reporter had written 
his story seriously and honestly, with no attempt 
at cheap humor. Slowly Praska put the paper 
down. Popular government! The voice of the 
people! These things meant more now than they 
had ever meant before. 


97 







THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


His father had left the table. From the hall, 
as he put on overcoat and hat, he called a ques¬ 
tion. 

“What do you think of the story?” 

“Good! I’m glad he didn’t try to poke fun 
at us.” 

“Why were you selected as spokesman for the 
delegation?” 

“I don’t know; I guess because I was the first 
one to think of going to the City Hall.” 

The man drew a breath of relief. He had had 
a fear that his name in the paper might go to 
his son’s head. For a moment he appeared in the 
dining room doorway. 

“I’d watch myself on speech making, son. It’s 
easy to overdo it. You had a real case yester¬ 
day; that’s all right. But don’t get the habit. 
I know men who cannot be happy in a gathering 
unless they have the floor. They become pests. 
Always wait until you have something to say— 
then say it.” 

The boy was glad, for some reason, that his 
father said nothing about what might be the re¬ 
sult of the mission. 

When he reached the school, it seemed that 
almost every student had brought a newspaper. 
Morning Heralds were everywhere. Some of 
them had been posted on the bulletin boards. The 

98 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


school, so full of dignity and restraint the day 
before, was running riot in a tide of spontaneous 
elation. 

Just before the first period bell rang Mr. Ban¬ 
ning, who was standing at a window, caught 
Praska’s eye and motioned mysteriously with his 
hand. The boy walked toward him. Down in 
the street three men were inspecting Nelson Ave¬ 
nue. One of them was Commissioner Hunter. 

Praska gasped. “Do you think-” 

The teacher smiled. “The voice of the people 
is a strong voice when it asks for what is just.” 

That afternoon, in every home room, the stu¬ 
dents heard read a letter from Mr. Rue com¬ 
mending the school for the manner in which it 
had conducted itself. At that the elation died, 
to be succeeded by a fitting and sober pride of ac¬ 
complishment. Just before classes ended for the 
day came another announcement from the princi¬ 
pal—this time delivered in person. Commissioner 
Hunter, he said, had telephoned him that Nelson 
Avenue had been inspected and found wanting, 
and that the street would be repaired within a 
month. 

The cheering that broke out then must have 
been heard at the City Hall. Praska found a 
lump in his throat. So this was the process of 
government in free America! He glanced at 

99 



THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Mr. Banning. The teacher’s face, at that mo¬ 
ment, was transformed. 

The closing bell rang, but it was a half hour 
before the school had emptied and the students 
had gone their way. Littlefield’s attempt to ex¬ 
press himself had been incoherent. Perry King’s 
sentiments had found expression in but one sen¬ 
tence, repeated over and over again. 

“I’ll tell the world I’m an American and darned 
glad of it.” 

Praska reached home long past his usual time. 
A rolled newspaper thrown there by a carrier, 
was on the front porch. It was the Evening Star; 
he unrolled it and smoothed out its creases. There 
was nothing in the news columns about Commis¬ 
sioner Hunter’s message to Mr. Rue; probably 
the Commissioner’s decision had come too late to 
be published that day. But on the editorial page 
was this: 


Torch Bearers of Democracy 

Government is not the whim or fancy 
of any group of public officials. Amer¬ 
ican government is the American 
people. The American people are the 
American government. But confusion, 
and misrepresentation, and trouble 
arise because the people refuse to func¬ 
tion in their government. The mere 
act of voting on election day does not 
constitute citizenship. True citizen- 

100 






THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


ship functions three hundred and sixty- 
five days a year; it is alive, active and 
intelligent; it plays its part and does 
not shirk; it consults with its elected 
officials and helps them to formulate 
policies of wisdom and justice. 

The eight hundred boys and girls of 
the high school who yesterday came to 
the City Hall and asked Commissioner 
Hunter to improve a street showed that 
they are alive to the possibilities of 
popular government. Instead of wast¬ 
ing time by grumbling, they chose the 
direct road and put their case frankly 
before a city official. The citizens of 
to-day who take their citizenship 
lightly can learn a needed lesson from 
the part these high school students have 
played. They have shown the will and 
spirit to function as Americans. They 
are torch-bearers of a true Democracy. 

The minutes passed, but Praska remained on 
the porch. Twice he read the editorial through. 
Slowly, at last, he came into the house. 
“Mother!” 

“Yes.” 

“Will Pop be home early to-day?” 

“No; he telephoned a little while ago. There 
is some business that must be attended to to¬ 
night. He thought he’d probably be up on the 
midnight train.” 

The boy appeared to be lost in thought. By 
and by he folded the Evening Star so that the 

101 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


editorial stood face up, and laid it on the small 
table where his father kept his pipes and some 
books. Struck by an after-thought he took a pen¬ 
cil from his pocket and wrote a sentence across 
the newspaper page. 

“Commissioner Hunter has promised to fix our 
street next month.” 

Hours later, when Mr. Praska reached home, 
the house was hushed and stilled. Gently he 
closed the front door. A night light burned in 
the dining room. He drew out a chair, turned 
the light higher, and began to read the Evening 
Star’s editorial on democracy. He had read it 
once coming out on the train. “They have 
shown,” he repeated aloud, “the will and the 
spirit to function as Americans.” 

After a time he went over to the side table to 
look for his pipe. At sight of the newspaper that 
his son had left for him a whimsical smile touched 
his lips; and then he saw the sentence telling of 
the Commissioner’s promise, and abruptly the 
smile was gone. 

His hand, feeling around for his pipe, sent 
something falling to the floor. He picked it up. 
It was a yellow card that he had tossed aside 
and had not given another thought. Now, as he 
stared at it, his lips moved. “The will and the 
spirit to function as Americans,” he said. 

102 




THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE 


Abruptly he ceased to search for the pipe and took 
out his fountain pen. On the card he signed the 
line that made him a member of the Fifth Ward 
Improvement Association. 




CHAPTER IV 

“BAWLER OUT” AND “NIMBLE FEET” 


T HE football season was over—the last 
game had been played. Basketball had 
not yet begun the hectic run of its sched¬ 
ule. Perry King, at his desk in Home Room 13 
sighed dolefully. 

“Might as well be a hermit,” he reflected. 
“There won’t be enough excitement for what’s 
left of this semester to muss a fellow’s hair.” 

But Perry was wrong. Life had a way of bob¬ 
bing up with unexpected surprises. Three days 
later Frank Baldwin, president of the Northfield 
Congress—in another school the body might have 
been termed the Student Council—resigned with 
the announcement that his family was moving 
from town. And the school, aroused from its 
quiet, found itself confronted with the duty of 
electing some one to fill his place. 

“Praska!” cried Perry. “Room 13 wants 
George Praska. Nothing to it but Praska. 
Might as well hold the election at once and get 

it over with! Praska!” 

104 


“BAWLER OUT”—‘^NIMBLE FEET” 


If Perry’s plan had been to stampede the school 
for his candidate, he almost succeeded. The 
cry was taken up in the halls. Northfield re¬ 
membered how, under Praska’s leadership, the 
school had marched to the City Hall and had 
had muddy Nelson Avenue improved. Perry, 
flushed and excited, buttonholed Littlefield in 
the doorway of the physics laboratory. 

“If we can get that election called at once,” 
he said, “Praska will go over without opposition. 
And then we’ll have a Room 13 fellow bossing 
the whole show. Room 13 has three votes in the 
Congress—yours, Praska’s and mine. I’ll make 
a motion to hold the election at once. You and 
Praska will vote for it. We’ll pick up enough 
support from other members of the Congress to 
jam the motion through. If you ask me, I’ll say 
that it will be pretty work.” 

But student participation in the government of 
Northfield High had endowed many of the body 
with a true sense of values, a gravity of thought, 
and a perception of real responsibility. Little¬ 
field, instead of giving off sparks of enthusiasm, 
grew sober. His eyebrows drew down in a 
frown. 

“I don’t like that,” he said. “And I know 
Praska wouldn’t be a party to it. It’s not Praska’s 
style.” 


105 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“Do you think the school could get anybody 
better than George Praska?” Perry demanded 
hotly. 

“No. But rushing through an election just to 
seat our own candidate would make a bad prece¬ 
dent. This year it would give us Praska. But 
how about next year, or the year after? We’ve 
got to think of the school. You and Praska and 
I will be through here in a year or so, but the 
school will be here long after we’re out. That’s 
what count’s—not to-morrow, but a long line of 
to-morrows.” 

Perry was silent. “I guess you’re right,” he 
said at last. Littlefield flashed him a look of ap¬ 
proval. The abrupt manner in which he had 
surrendered an unsound theory was indication of 
what Northfield was doing for its young citizen. 

But though Perry had surrendered, he could 
not stifle a secret regret. He had developed an 
uncanny knack of interpreting popular sentiment. 
The sharp brain, functioning above his thin, bony 
body, seemed able to read what a group might 
be thinking. He knew that, at the moment, 
Praska was the choice of the school. But the 
moment would pass. Other candidates would be 
brought forward—it was in the nature of things 
that this should happen. And shrewd instinct 
told him that certainty passed out of an election 

106 





“BAWLER OUT”—“NIMBLE FEET” 


once the friends of rival candidates began to run 
main issues up obscure and unexpected bypaths. 

In due time the Northfield Congress met and 
promulgated its findings. Nominations, the Con¬ 
gress ordered, must be made from the home 
rooms; and each home room was limited to one 
choice. The names of candidates, the decree ran, 
would be placed on the ballot in alphabetical or¬ 
der, and the Congress would supervise the elec¬ 
tion. Five days were given in which to make 
nominations. 

Room 13 promptly nominated Praska. Three 
other home rooms promptly indorsed him. Then 
came a halt. Perry went scouting to learn thei 
reason. 

“Opposition,” he reported to Littlefield. 

Littlefield scowled. “Where?” 

“The girls.” 

Next day one of the girls’ home rooms nomi¬ 
nated Lee Merritt, who was serving as a member 
of the Congress. 

In Room 13 there were outbursts of mirth. 
Hammond, the captain of the eleven, was con¬ 
vulsed with laughter. 

“You don’t mean that they’ve named old ‘Nim- 
ble-feet’ Merritt?” 

Perry nodded. 

“Why, all that fellow can do is dance. That’s 

107 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


where he got his nickname. What did he ever 
do for the school?” 

“He was chairman of the committee that gave 
the Thanksgiving Day Entertainment,” said Lit¬ 
tlefield. 

Hammond snorted. “He had a good live com¬ 
mittee. The committee members did the work 
and saved his bacon. He’s a fusser with the girls, 
and that’s the only place he shines.” 

“Yes,” Perry said slowly; “and there are four 
hundred and fifty girls in Northfield and about 
three hundred and fifty fellows. He’s the best 
dancer in the school, and the girls crowd each 
other for a chance to be his partner. He has a 
way with them. There’s no getting away from 
that. He’s popular with them. You can’t get 
away from that. And if they really get behind 
old ‘Nimble-feet’ they’ve got the votes.” 

“Who,” said Littlefield, “who sprung his nomi¬ 
nation?” 

“I don’t know. But Betty Lawton is helping 
his candidacy.” 

Littlefield gave a low whistle of consternation. 
Betty Lawton was, without question, the leading 
spirit in the girls’ rooms. 

“Confound girls, anyway,” Hammond said bit¬ 
terly. 

The following morning two more of the girls’ 

108 





“BAWLER OUT”—‘NIMBLE FEET” 


rooms came out for Merritt. Betty Lawton’s in¬ 
fluence was showing its strength. In a corner of 
the cafeteria, Perry, Hammond and Littlefield 
held a council of gloom. 

“If the worst comes to the worst,” Littlefield 
said, “we might try stuffing the ballot boxes.” 

“No crooked work at Northfield,” Perry said 
sharply. 

Littlefield gave him a glance of scorn. “Did 
you think I meant it? Of course there’s nothing 
crooked at Northfield.” 

But there was. Just before classes were dis¬ 
missed that afternoon the news spread through 
the school that money had been stolen from three 
clothing lockers on the first floor. 

In the auditorium, the following morning, Mr. 
Rue, the principal, faced the students with un¬ 
wonted gravity. 

“As a rule,” he said, “the faculty prefers to 
have matters of ordinary interest to Northfield 
announced by duly elected officials of the student 
body. We like to see Northfield citizens func¬ 
tion intelligently for themselves. But the matter 
that must come before you this morning is of such 
extraordinary character that I deem it best to 
handle the matter myself. 

“Three of the clothing lockers were rifled yes¬ 
terday, and money was stolen from all three. 

109 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Fortunately, the amounts taken were small; but 
that does not lessen the seriousness of the occur¬ 
rence. All of us, alive to the best interests of 
Northfield, have been asking, in our hearts, one 
question. Was this thing done by a citizen of 
Northfield? I can tell you that it was not. 

“We have definitely established the fact that 
some outsider entered the school, committed the 
thefts, and left. However, there is an aspect to 
the case that must give us pause. The intruder 
did not force a door nor break a lock. Each 
locker that was robbed had been left open. This 
was, in itself, a frank and careless invitation to 
loss. 

“To this extent Northfield has been guilty of 
poor citizenship. Good citizenship writes as its 
cardinal virtue obedience to law. The law calls 
for clothing lockers to be kept locked. The per¬ 
son who committed the thefts broke the moral 
law and the law of organized society. The stu¬ 
dents who left their lockers invitingly open broke 
the law of the school. No bank leaves its money 
out on the sidewalk. Such a condition would be 
akin to tempting people to steal. The giver of 
a bribe is as guilty as the taker; and he who by 
carelessness tempts another to commit a theft is 
as guilty, in the larger meaning, as the one who 
steals. 


110 




“BAWLER OUT”—“NIMBLE FEET” 

“We must have no more of this laxness at 
Northfield. Last night we got in touch with 
every member of our Congress. The school day 
has hardly begun, but the Congress has already 
met, and is organized to handle the situation. A 
‘Safety Committee’ has been organized with Mr. 
Lee Merritt as chairman; and it will have Room 
B-2 in the basement as its headquarters. This 
committee will patrol all corridors, and will test 
lockers during the day to see that they are kept 
locked. If a locker is found open, a warning slip 
will be left on the knob. A second slip will be 
for the second offense. But if a locker is found 
open for the third time, everything in it will be 
taken to the committee room and the owner will 
have to identify his property in order to get it 
back. 

“The members of this committee will wear arm 
bands, and on each band will be two letters—‘S’ 
and ‘C’. Their authority, where open lockers are 
found, is to be accepted by the school. I am 
sorry that the Congress has had to name such a 
committee. It should not be necessary for us to 
police ourselves. The Congress asks me to in¬ 
form you that the committee will be disbanded 
just as soon as Northfield shows that it is capable 
of obeying its own laws without supervision.” 

The school filed soberly from the auditorium; 

111 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


but once in the corridors the walls echoed a med¬ 
ley of excited debate and speculation. Back in 
Room 13 Mr. Banning held the boys while wait¬ 
ing for the next period bell. 

“I think,” he said, “that Room 13 has a repre¬ 
sentative on the Safety Committee.” 

Perry King arose. “I’m on the committee. We 
won’t have our arm bands until to-morrow.” 

“Can’t do anything in this school,” little Johnny 
Dunn chortled, “without Room 13 having a finger 
in the pie.” 

“Let Room 13 keep its hands clean by not mak¬ 
ing it necessary to be reported by the Safety Com¬ 
mittee,” Perry said savagely. Plainly he was 
chewing some cud of bitter reflection. Mr. Ban¬ 
ning looked at him in surprise. Littlefield nudged 
Hammond. 

“Something’s gone wrong,” he observed wisely. 
“I’ll bet it has something to do with the election.” 

It did have something to do with the election. 
Twice, before the period bell rang, Perry tried to 
catch Praska’s eye; later there was no chance to 
overtake him in the orderly lines out in the hall. 
During the morning he heard that one more room 
had declared for Praska. That was good. The 
information was followed by the announcement 
that the two remaining rooms—a girls’ room and 
Merritt’s own home room—had taken a stand 

112 





“BAWLER OUT”—“NIMBLE FEET” 


for the rival candidate whose specialty was danc¬ 
ing. Perry’s face grew long. He counted the 
minutes until noon, and then hastened down to 
the cafeteria. Praska was eating at a corner table. 

“Speed it up,” Perry said. “I want to talk to 
you, and I can’t do it here. There’s too big a 
crowd.” He got a tray, and brought his own 
meal back to the table. “I’ve got an earful for 
you,” he added, “and don’t make any mistake 
about that.” 

Twenty minutes later, on the quiet landing of 
a little used rear stairway, the earful was duly 
delivered. 

“Four home rooms have declared for you,” 
Perry said, “and four have declared for Merritt. 
Of course the fact that a home room indorses a 
candidate doesn’t mean that the other fellow 
won’t get any votes from that room. You’ll get 
everything in your room; Merritt will get every¬ 
thing in his. But in the other rooms that in¬ 
dorsed Merritt, you got some votes, and he got 
some votes in the rooms that indorsed you. A 
room indorsement is simply a majority opinion. 
It doesn’t bind the fellow who voted against the 
majority to swing into line and make the choice 
unanimous.” 

Praska smiled his slow smile. “Why get ex¬ 
cited about that?” 


113 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“Four rooms against four rooms,” said Perry. 
“The girls’ rooms have the most votes. They’re 
going to control this election.” 

“Why shouldn’t they, if they have the most 
votes?” 

“But ‘Nimble-feet’ Merritt is chairman of the 
Safety Committee.” 

There was something in the way the sentence 
was said that brought Praska’s brows together in 
a frown. Plainly his friend was hinting at some¬ 
thing queer—but he could not follow him. “What 
of that?” he asked at last. 

“Oh, you ninny,” Perry said pityingly. “Can’t 
you see what’s going to happen? By and by some 
of the girls will leave their lockers open for the 
third time. Their things will be brought down 
to the committee room. And what will ‘Nimble- 
feet’ do? Will he make them toe the mark? He 
will not. He’ll apologize to them for making 
them come down and they’ll go away figuring that 
he’s just the nicest fellow in Northfield. What 
chance will you have against that?” 

Praska’s face was grave. “You mean Merritt 
will use the Safety Committee as part of his cam¬ 
paign?” 

“No; no.” Perry was impatient. “He won’t 
be able to do anything else. It’s his way. He 
always gushes over a girl. And members of the 

114 




“BAWLER OUT”—“NIMBLE FEET” 


committee, that the whole school know are for 
you, will have to play along as he plays or your 
election is gone.” 

They looked into each other’s eyes as men do 
who seek to read each other’s souls. Praska was 
the first to speak. 

“Let’s go back,” he said, and started down the 
stairs. 

Perry sighed. The interview had not gone as 
he had counted. He had come there to warn 
Praska of the defeat that lay ahead; to tell 

him-. A chill of doubt stabbed at him and 

he grew icy with apprehension. As he started to 
follow, his steps were slow, his feet were heavy. 

“Praska stooping to that,” he said in a whis¬ 
per. “I can’t believe it.” 

And then Praska turned and came back up the 
stairs. In his eyes now was a look of pain as 
though the thing that brought him back might 
hurt; but his jaw was squared. 

“Perry,” he said rapidly, after the fashion of 
one who seeks to get an unpleasant duty over 
with, “the presidency of the Congress is the great¬ 
est honor that Northfield can give. It’s a big 

temptation, but-. Oh, we got to play the 

game. If I thought that a single vote came to me 
because some friend in Room 13 let things slide 

and winked at-. You know what Mr. Rue 

115 







THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


said this morning about open lockers. Bad citizen¬ 
ship! We can’t stand for that. I don’t care how 
many votes-” 

Perry gave a cry of understanding. “You mean 
you think I’m going to do ‘Nimble-feet’s’ stunt and 
play for votes?’’ 

“Isn’t that what you were trying to tell me?” 

“You poor prune! I wanted you to see what 
you were up against. I wanted to tell you that I 
was going to treat everybody who came down to 
the committee-room without gloves. I was trying 
to tell you I was just about going to lose you 
that election.” 

“And I thought it was the other thing,” said 
Praska. 

Perry was going to announce what he had be¬ 
lieved, but stifled the words before they were ut¬ 
tered. Somehow, the thought itself seemed to 
carry a sting of insult. After a moment his lips 
twisted into a crooked smile. 

“ ‘I would rather be right than be president.’ 
Regular Henry Clay stuff. Remember when we 
first heard that saying of Clay’s? Back in the 
eighth grade of grammar school. It didn’t mean 
much then; but Mr. Banning said something 
about it last week. I’ll tell the world he drove it 
home to me.” 

“It’s the spirit of America,” Praska said pas- 

116 






“BAWLER OUT’—"NIMBLE FEET” 


sionately. And Perry wondered how he could 
ever have dreamed that Praska would sell his 
ideals for an honor. 

There are, in every school, a shiftless few who 
cannot be touched by the finer things, and who 
take their responsibilities lightly. Close on their 
heels tread the laggards, the thoughtless and in¬ 
different. Northfield was no exception to the 
common rule. And so it came to pass that before 
many days lockers were being emptied by the 
Safety Committee, and uneasy and blustering stu¬ 
dents were coming down to Room B-2 to claim 
their temporarily-confiscated belongings. 

It was in Room B-2 that Perry’s scathing 
tongue won for him the nickname of the “Bawler- 
Out” 

“Why,” said Littlefield in admiration, “you 
never heard such dressing downs in your life. To 
hear that long-legged bantam talk you’d think 
he was the Constitution of the United States and 
the Supreme Court rolled into one. Half the 
fellows who go down there could squeeze his ear 
and make him dance to their music; but they 
take what he has to say and walk out like tame 
ducks.” 

Friend or mere acquaintance—it was all the 
same to Perry. He had been placed in power to 
see that a necessary and vital law was obeyed. He 

117 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


recognized no other creed. Those who came to 
wheedle grew abashed before his indignant glare. 
A few came to threaten, only to become silent 
under his withering indignation. He knew neither 
fear nor favor, excuse nor extenuation. North- 
field had soiled itself through contact with a thief. 
It was never to happen again. Soft words had 
no power, friendship no appeal, to turn him from 
that. 

Between times he found occasion to campaign 
for Praska. One boy whom he had flayed in the 
morning, he approached for support in the after¬ 
noon. The student eyed him coldly. 

“You were certainly around when nerve was 
given out,” he commented. “A few hours ago 
you scalped me; now you’re asking for favors.” 

“What do you want me to be,” Perry de¬ 
manded, “a Northfield fellow or a trimmer?” 

The student flushed. “A Northfield fellow,” 
he said after a moment. “I wouldn’t promise to 
vote for Praska; but I haven’t promised to vote 
for Merritt, either.” 

Merritt, on the other hand, took his duties 
with light ease. During his periods of patrol, he 
walked the corridors faithfully; but there were 
times when Room B-2 did not see him for an 
entire day and the committee took care of itself. 
^When he would come in, he would always wear 

118 




“BAWLER OUT’—"NIMBLE FEET ” 


an air of busy importance. He would glance 
briefly through the record book, sign the reports 
that others had prepared, and then he was gone. 

“Good work,” he would say from the door¬ 
way. “Somebody had better stay on deck. That 
stuff we took out of locker 136—Morris will be 
down looking for that this afternoon. Some¬ 
body’ll have to be here to give it to him.” 

Perry regarded him with sour disfavor. 

The campaign ran on and grew feverish with 
the days. Twice the auditorium was given over 
to political mass meetings—once so that Merritt’s 
friends could plead his case, again so that 
Praska’s adherents could advance his claims. 
Neither Betty Lawton nor Perry were among the 
orators. Perry was down in Room B-2 doing 
work that had to be done. Betty was in the 
assembly, merely a listener, but she applauded 
each speaker who said a good word for Merritt. 
Littlefield, who was watching her narrowly, saw 
that. 

It was after the meeting called to help him 
that Merritt made one of his brief visits to the 
headquarters of the Safety Committee. He had 
been praised for the sharp manner in which the 
committee was supervising the lockers; his spirit 
had expanded mellowly under the tide of ap- 

119 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


proval. No doubt he thought he had earned all 
the good things that had been said of him. And 
while he was in the committee room making his 
perfunctory examination of the records, a girl 
from the junior class came in to claim several 
articles that had been removed from her open 
locker. 

Merritt sprang nimbly to his feet. “Miss 
Hunt! I’m sorry you have had to come down 
here. Has it inconvenienced you? Really, I 
could have taken care of this if you had let me 
know. We had to take them; no way out of it. 
It’s a school order. You’ll keep your locker closed 
hereafter, won’t you? Going right upstairs?” 

“Yes; Betty Lawton is waiting for me.” In 
fact, Betty stood in the doorway. 

“Let me carry them for you,” Merritt said 
quickly, and draped the girl’s coat over his arm. 
Chatting and laughing he led the way from the 
room. 

Perry, who had seen it all, made a bow to an 
imaginary visitor. “Oh, Miss Dillpickle! What 
an outrage that your own things should have been 
taken from your own locker. I am humiliated 
that this should have happened to you. Of 
course, the school says you deserve this punish¬ 
ment, but what’s good citizenship between 
friends?” He kicked over the chair that Merritt 

120 




“BAWLER OUT”—NIMBLE FEET” 


had just vacated. “Of all the rot,” he said in 
disgust. 

But calling Merritt’s methods names did not 
minimize their danger to Praska. Here was a 
girl offender who had been treated apologetically, 
and another girl who had witnessed the deference 
that she had been shown. They would spread a 
report of Merritt’s consideration through the 
girls’ home rooms. And with Betty Lawton tell¬ 
ing it— 

Perry waited glumly until another member of 
the committee came to relieve him. This was 
Wednesday. The election was to be held Friday. 
All day to-morrow for the telling of a sympathetic 
story of what a thoughtful, engaging young man 
Lee Merritt was. All of Friday, until the hour 
of the election, for the story to be told and re¬ 
told. If Merritt had been deliberately seeking 
votes through his connection with the Safety Com¬ 
mittee, Perry might have found a savage joy in 
counter-plotting; but Merritt, who could find so 
little time for his committee chairmanships, 
seemed innocently unaware of the strength he was 
building up behind his gallantries. Perry shook 
his head helplessly and went upstairs. 

The hour was well on toward four o’clock; yet 
by rare good luck, he met Praska going out the 
school door. Perry was nothing if not curious. 

121 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“What kept you so late?” 

“Room 13 is turning out an election circular to¬ 
morrow. They asked me to wait while they got 
up the copy. Johnnie Baffin owns a small print¬ 
ing press; some of the fellows are going around 
there to-night and after Johnnie sticks the type 
they’re going to print the job.” 

“Funny I wasn’t told about that,” Perry said 
with a shaft of jealousy. 

“One thing at a time,” Praska said. “You’re 
making a job of the Safety Committee—and a 
good job, too.” 

Perry’s face lengthened. He told of what had 
happened in Room B-2—told it bitterly for he 
was sore in spirit. Praska looked past him, a 
far-away stare in his eyes, as though in the dis¬ 
tance he saw visions of strength and truth. 

“Betty Lawton and every girl in Northfield,” 
he said at last, “is a citizen of Northfield. That’s 
the thing to remember. They’re just as proud of 
Northfield as the rest of us. They’re just as much 
interested in the school as any fellow. Of course, 
girls expect fellows to be nice to them, but I don’t 
think they look for it, or want it, at the price of 
something big.” 

“Big what?” Perry demanded. 

“Northfield citizenship,” Praska answered. 
“Not the make-believe kind; the real thing.” 

122 




“BAWLER OUT’’—NIMBLE FEET” 


Perry sniffed. “You wouldn’t say that if you 
saw the way those two girls acted to-day.” 

“Maybe they haven’t thought of it from the 
right angle. Maybe they just accepted what 
Merritt did as the courtesy a fellow would natur¬ 
ally show a girl. Down in my heart I believe 
they’re just as much alive to the real things as 
any of us are. I think they’d be insulted if they 
thought the school had one line of treatment for 
the boy citizens and another for the girl. I think 
they want to play the big game with us, and that 
they’re ready to play it with us. I think they’re 
eager and willing to take the knocks that go with 
the big game. They’re not asking to be babied. 
They’re citizens; and the fellow who refuses to 
judge them as citizens belittles them and belittles 
the school.” 

Perry had listened with a rising color in his 
cheeks. At the end he shook his head as though 
breaking away from a charm of words. 

“Wouldn’t it be fine for the school if things ran 
like that?” he asked wistfully. 

Praska was disappointed. “You’re one of 
those who think a girl has to be babied?” 

“The bulk of ‘Nimble-feet’ Merritt’s support 
is coming from the girls’ home rooms,” Perry 
said practically. It was an argument that ad¬ 
mitted of no answer. He trudged off and left 

123 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Praska there still staring into the distance as 
though he still saw a vision. 

Next morning the circulars that had been run 
off on Johnnie Baffin’s press made their appear¬ 
ance in the school. Perry read one with interest: 

GEORGE PRASKA 


Room 13 Asks You to Elect 
Him on His Record 


You will vote a prepared ballot for Presi¬ 
dent of the Congress. 

Why? 

Because George Praska fought for a pre¬ 
pared ballot last fall in Room 13 elections. 
The principle for which he fought was 
sound. Every home room in Northfield has 
adopted it. 

You won’t have to wade across muddy 
Nelson Avenue hereafter. 

Why? 

Because George Praska led Northfield to 
the City Hall and had the street improved. 

A VOTE FOR PRASKA 
is 

A VOTE FOR PROGRESS 
124 







"BAWLER OUT”—“NIMBLE FEET” 


“That,” said Littlefield over his shoulder, “is 
what I call a mighty fine campaign document. It 
ought to swing this election.” 

“Who wrote it?” Perry asked. 

“I did,” Littlefield said modestly. “Don’t you 
like it?” 

Perry liked it immensely. The more he thought 
of it, the more its arguments seemed conclusive 
and sweeping. Coming the day before the elec¬ 
tion, it would rivet attention on the candidates 
and their known capabilities. Later, in physics, 
when his mind should have been dissecting some 
problems that had to do with the energy of steam, 
his imagination was captivated by pictures of 
signs that the school would find on Nelson Ave¬ 
nue next morning. He intended to erect them. 
He even knew how the signs would look: “Thank 
Praska for a Clean Street.” That, he told him¬ 
self proudly, would be a knockout, the last straw, 
the winning hit, the grand finale that would bring 
home the bacon. 

At noon, after eating, he went outdoors to de¬ 
cide just where the signs should go. On the out¬ 
door steps he paused. Merritt was on the side¬ 
walk, the center of a group of eagerly-questioning 
girls. He held in his hand one of the Praska cir¬ 
culars, and was talking lightly. Some of his au¬ 
dience began to laugh. 


125 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“Isn’t that perfectly ridiculous,” came a clear 
soprano voice. Perry turned on his heels and re¬ 
entered the school. He was in no mood to go 
back to Room 13. It was not his hour for Safety 
Committee duty; yet a sort of restlessness led 
him down to Room B-2. The committee quarters 
were deserted. Clothing, in neat piles over in a 
corner, told him that some lockers had been 
cleaned out that day. He began to look through 
the slips on his desk. George Hartford, Frank 

Mason, Elizabeth Lawton-. Even as his eyes 

opened wide, there was a sound from the hall, 
a patter of feet on the floor, and then a voice. 

“Oh, Perry, won’t you please let me have my 
things? I’m in an awful hurry.” 

For just a moment Perry hesitated. Tempta¬ 
tion to make political capital of the situation 
touched him—he who had vowed to handle the 
work with honor. This girl was a leader. She 
could influence votes. And then the temptation 
was gone, routed before his feeling for a higher 
duty and the stern necessity of upholding a North- 
field ideal. Slowly he took from the desk the 
paper that bore her name. 

“Won’t you sit down?” he said. 

She looked at him in surprise. “But I’m in a 
hurry.” 

“That’s twice to-day you’ve been in a hurry» 

126 





“BAWLER OUT’’—NIMBLE FEET” 


The first time when you were so much in a hurry 
that you forgot to protect your locker. The 
doctors say that hurry kills people. You don’t 
want to die young, do you?” 

She thought for a moment that he was joking; 
but the look on his face dispelled that theory. A 
judge, sentencing a prisoner to death, could not 
have been more serious. His voice carried a 
solemnity that made her uneasy. She did not 
mean to do it—and yet she sank into the chair 
toward which he had motioned. 

“Socially, Miss Lawton,” he said, “it is always 
a pleasure to meet you, but I do not care to 
meet you under the circumstances that prevail to¬ 
day. You have left a locker open. Because you 
and others are careless, one student had to give 
up part of a study period to patrol your corridor, 
to take your things out, and to bring them here 
for safe keeping. I have to stay here, too, to 
give them back to you when you get ready to 
come for them. Do you think it fair that your 
carelessness should make extra work for others? 
You may be waited on at home; I have nothing 
to say about that. But you can’t expect to have 
people pick up and carry for you here. It isn’t 
the Northfield spirit.” 

An angry spot of red had begun to burn in the 
girl’s cheeks. 


127 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


U I came for my clothing,” she said icily; “not 
to be lectured by you.” 

“No,” Perry said. “You came here convicted 
of bad citizenship. We can’t pass bad citizenship 
over with a smile. It’s too serious. If you object 
to getting both clothing and the truth at the same 
time, you can go to Mr. Rue’s office and com¬ 
plain.” 

The girl half arose from her chair, and then 
dropped back. She bit her lips. This tall, thin 
monster who stood before her with the austere 
gravity of an executioner had all the best of it. 
She could not go to the principal’s office without 
having to explain there how her locker had come 
to be open. Better a session with Perry than a 
session with Mr. Rue. She leaned back in the 
chair, turned her eyes toward the door leading 
to the hall, and began to hum. 

Perry went over to the clothing and brought 
back one of the piles. “Personal belongings 
must be identified before surrender,” he said. 

“One silk handbag.” 

The girl continued to stare out of the door. 

“Not identified,” said Perry. “We’ll put that 
aside. It must belong to somebody else.” 

Betty sprang to her feet. “That’s mine. My 
initials are inside. My mother gave me that last 
Christmas.” 


128 




“BAWLER OUT”—“TUMBLE FEET” 


“You must value it,” Perry observed, “to 
throw it in an open locker and leave it there.” 

The girl’s cheeks were burning. “I won’t stay 
here to be insulted.” 

“You wouldn’t be here at all if you obeyed the 
Northfield laws. One fur hat and one coat 
trimmed with fur.” 

“Mine,” Betty snapped. “My name’s stamped 
on the hat lining, and one of my notebooks is in 
the right-hand coat pocket.” 

“One vanity case, one pair of gloves with a 
hole in one finger.” 

“You needn’t criticise my gloves,” the girl cried 
angrily. 

“I wouldn’t know anything about them if they 
hadn’t been brought here,” Perry reminded her. 

She wanted to walk out, to leave her belong¬ 
ings there, to turn an outraged back upon him 
and leave him to a hollow triumph. But, some¬ 
how, even in her wrath, she felt a compelling, 
arresting force that would not let her go. He 
was gathering up the clothing, piling it neatly and 
she walked toward him tight-lipped, to take what 
was hers. He did not push it to her across the 
desk. 

“It’s worse for a girl to be careless,” he said, 
“than it is for a fellow. People expect a girl to 
be orderly. If she isn’t orderly, what kind of 

129 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


home will she have after she’s married? Every¬ 
thing will be upset. I’d think about that, Miss 
Lawton,” he said gravely, and held the pile 
toward her. 

She snatched it from him. “The ‘Bawler out!’ ” 
Her voice shook. “No wonder they call you that. 
Bawler out! They ought to call you a tyrant.” 

“And a girl like you,” said Perry, “who’s a 
leader, ought to stand with the law of Northfield 
and not against it.” 

A stamp of her foot, a toss of a raven-black 
head, something that sounded like a cry of pro¬ 
test, and she was gone. Carefully, methodically, 
Perry wrote on the slip the date when the things 
taken from the locker had been claimed. Under 
this he signed his name with curious deliberation. 

Upstairs, in one of the corridors, he met Lit¬ 
tlefield. “Seen Praska?” he asked. 

Littlefield shook his head. 

“If you see him-” Perry paused a moment. 

“Tell him Betty Lawton came to Room B-2 for 
her clothing. Tell him he’s licked to a frazzle. 
He’ll understand.” 

Leaving the basement of the school, Betty 
Lawton did not go directly to her own home room. 
She had begun to cry, and had then dried her 
tears with the resolve that nothing Perry King 
could do or say would make her cry. But her 

130 



“BAWLER OUT”—“NIMBLE FEET” 


eyes were red, and she did not want to take this 
tell-tale sign back where others could see it. 

She was in one of the rear corridors, between 
a window and the foot of a side stairway. Two 
boys began to descend the stairs. She walked to 
the window, turned her back, and looked outdoors 
as though absorbed in something she saw. But 
the first words caught her attention. 

“Perry King I” came a voice. “He’s nothing 
but a bag of wind. Likes to hear himself talk.” 

“I don’t think you’ve got him sized up right,” 
came an answer. 

“I didn’t know you were in love with him. 
You wanted to beat him up after that dressing 
down he gave you in the Safety Committee 
room.” 

“Well, I’ve changed my mind about that. He 
came to me that same day and began to urge me 
to consider Praska for President of the Congress. 
‘You’ve got a fine nerve,’ I told him, ‘to ask 
favors from me after what you said to me to¬ 
day.’ He came right back at me. ‘What do 
you want me to be,’ he asked, ‘a trimmer or a 
Northfield fellow?’ There’s a whole lot in that. 
If he had wanted to trim he could have made a 
lot of votes for Praska; and I’ll bet a gold mine 
he’s lost Praska votes by the way he’s bawled 
out fellows. But that’s Perry. He’s for the 

131 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


school, and nothing else matters. I’ll bet if 
Praska got nailed with an open locker he’d bawl 
him out as hard as he’d hand it to you or me.” 

The footsteps went along the corridor, turned 
a corner, and were swallowed in a host of other 
sounds. By and by, across the willful face of 
Betty Lawton, a new expression began to find 
its way. He had spoken of the Northfield spirit. 
“You can’t,” he had said, “pass bad citizenship 
over with a smile.” And he had added some¬ 
thing that gave her pause the longer she thought 
of it. A leader ought to stand for the law of 
Northfield and not against it. He had called her 
a leader—and in the same breath had condemned 
her. All at once a new and strange respect for 
this monster, this bawler out, began to run 
through her veins. 

Presently she was stirred to action. Going 
to her locker, she hung up her clothing and care¬ 
fully locked the door. As she turned away she 
saw Merritt. Suddenly she was moved to try a 
strange conclusion. 

“Lee,” she called as she reached his side, “my 
locker was emptied by the committee.” 

“Gosh,” he said. “Isn’t that tough luck? 
You girls who forget to turn a key will get into 
trouble. When did it happen?” 

“This morning some time.” 

132 




“BAWLER OUT”—“NIMBLE FEET” 


“I wish you had told me sooner. I might have 
been able to fix it up for you at once. Wait here. 
I’ll go down and get your things.” 

“You needn’t,” she said in a voice that baf¬ 
fled him. “I got them a little while ago from 
Perry King.” As she went to her home room 
with the red now gone from her eyes, her heels 
seemed to tap out “bad citizenship, bad citizen¬ 
ship” on the floor. Merritt had tried to smooth 
things for her; Perry had called her strictly to 
account. As between the two her choice ran to 
the sturdy, uncompromising viewpoint that gave 
no favors and asked none. 

Yet, after a time, she was conscious of a vague 
disquietude. Suppose Praska, confronted with 
complaint of Perry’s methods, should try to pour 
an unctuous oil of insincerity upon the troubled 
water. Her mouth grew thin-lipped again, as it 
had done earlier that day down in Room B-2. 
She had tested Merritt by the light that Perry 
King had given her. Now she would test Praska. 

She did not come upon him until just before 
school closed for the day. They met outside Mr. 
Rue’s office to which both had gone on errands. 

“George,” she said boldly, “Perry King is one 
of your chief lieutenants, isn’t he?” 

“Yes; he is.” 

“I had to go to the Safety Committee room 

133 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


to-day to claim some clothing. You know what 
the school calls him—the ‘Bawler-Out.’ Do you 
think he ought to talk to a girl the same way he 
talks to a boy ?” 

“I have nothing to do with the Safety Com¬ 
mittee, Betty.” 

She felt a stirring of regret. In her present 
mood she wanted to encounter the strength of 
a leader with the courage to stand for his con¬ 
victions. Praska she thought was trimming. 

“Never mind that,” she said. “I know you’re 
not on the committee. But you’re running for 
office, and Perry is one of your chief supporters. 
You know what he’s been doing in Room B-2. 
The whole school knows. Do you believe in his 
talking to a girl like that?” 

“I believe,” Praska said slowly, “that if a girl 
and a fellow are to be equal in their citizenship, 
they must be equal in their responsibility. Perry 
wasn’t insulting, was he?” 

“N —no, not exactly. He hurt my feelings.” 

“Perhaps you hurt his feelings by breaking a 
Northfield law. Did you not leave your locker 
open?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then Perry did what I would have done 
had I been in his place.” 

At that moment the message that Perry had 

134 




“BAWLER OUT”—“NIMBLE FEET” 


sent to him ran through Praska’s mind—“licked 
to a frazzle.” A wry smile twisted his lips even 
as he bowed and took a step past the girl. 

But she stopped him with a quick little gesture, 
half imperative, half entreating. 

“George,” she said, “I’ve been doing some 
campaign work for Lee Merritt, but I’ve seen 
some things to-day that have changed my mind. 
You never met my Uncle Bob, did you? He’s 
captain of a steamer that runs to South America. 
He says that no boat can sail a true course with¬ 
out a strong hand on the tiller. You can count 
on my support when the Northfield Congress open 
the polls to-morrow.” 




CHAPTER V 


A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 

H IS name, written with neat exactness on 
the paper cover of each of his school¬ 
books, had a certain sound of solid 
dignity—Oliver Morse. Yet there was nothing 
impressive about his appearance in his junior year 
at Northfield. He was tall and sallow, with 
thin, straight, straw-colored hair, and half- 
squinted, watery, inquiring eyes behind very thick 
eyeglasses. His shoulders had the stoop that 
comes from too much study and not enough vig¬ 
orous exercise. Trudging to school, with his 
books in a worn brief case that swung at his 
side and that now and then got caught in between 
his dangling legs, he looked for all the world 
like the pictures mischievous boys used to draw 
of absent-minded professors. Some one once 
said that, when he stood up to recite, he looked 
like a scarecrow that had deserted its corn¬ 
field and had started out to secure an edu¬ 
cation. He talked through his nose with his 

136 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


head thrust to one side as though the ceiling of 
the classroom was too low for his height. By 
all the time-honored standards of boyhood he 
should have been the joke of the school. 

Instead few students were held in higher es¬ 
teem at Northfield. He was an inconspicuous 
member of Room 13. He did not often take 
part in debates, but when he did he was sure of 
his facts. His knowledge of parliamentary law 
had floored many an uncertain opponent. He 
supported school athletics to the point of attend¬ 
ing all the at-home games, appearing at the field 
with a book under his arm and reading it during 
the major part of the contest. There was a 
widespread rumor that he never knew which side 
won a game, and was uncertain about the num¬ 
ber of players on the nine. The school, taking 
note of his appearance and his attainments, called 
him “The Northfield Owl.” It was a name of 
affection. 

That March Prof. Banning led a pilgrimage to 
the County Court House where old Judge Seifert 
was holding Naturalization Court. Oliver sat in 
the first row of spectators’ seats, and cocked his 
head to one side, and stared with rapt interest 
at what went on around him. From the silk flag, 
draped on the wall behind the bench, his eyes came 
down to the white-haired judge sitting there in the 

137 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


fullness of his years and honors to bestow the 
dignity of American citizenship upon those that 
had come from other lands. The judge himself, 
in his youth, had taken out his papers of citizen¬ 
ship and had sworn allegiance to a flag of red, 
and white, and blue. He had come to the United 
States in ’48 when so many high-spirited young 
men were leaving Germany to seek a liberty that 
was denied them in the Fatherland. During the 
Civil War he had fought for the Union cause 
under General Franz Siegel, and carried a musket 
ball in his right hip thereafter. He had sealed 
his allegiance with his blood. Oliver did not know 
this; but sitting there, staring at that straight and 
spare figure on the bench, the boy felt an un¬ 
accountable thrill run along his spine. 

“One Union,” he said to himself, “indivisible, 
with liberty and justice for all.” It seemed a 
queer thing to be running through his mind. 

A brisk little man represented the United States 
Government at the hearing and questioned the 
applicants. Italian and French, Turk and Greek, 
German and Slav—one by one they came forward 
in answer to their names and were admitted to 
citizenship or else heard citizenship refused them. 
Presently the clerk of the court called: 

“Antonio Miretto.” 

A man of swarthy skin arose from one of the 

138 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


benches and stepped forward. The Government 
representative had grown a little tired. His 
voice had become a monotonous fire of questions. 
How long have you lived in the United States? 
Who is the President, the Governor of this State, 
the United States Senators from this State? How 
does the State make its laws? What is the law¬ 
making branch of the United States Government? 
How is the President elected? Antonio answered 
the questions with but slight hesitation. The 
lawyer faced the bench. 

“If your Honor please,” he said, “I think 
citizenship should be granted in this case.” 

The judge did not move. His voice came like 
the dry rasp of autumn leaves. 

“Mr. Miretto,” he asked, “how long have you 
lived in this country?” 

“Twelve years,” said the man. 

“And this is your first attempt to become a 
citizen r 

The man shrugged his shoulders. “I did not 
want to become citizen before.” 

“Why do you want to become a citizen now?” 

“So I can vote for Angelo Introcello. Angelo 
big boss. Angello got plenty jobs.” 

“I understand then that this Angello is to be 
a candidate at the next election?” the judge asked. 

“Candidate, yes. Big job City Hall.” 

139 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“Who told you to come here and apply for 
citizenship papers?” 

“Angelo. Angelo send man; man give lessons. 
Man say ‘Antonio, now you know enough to be 
citizen. You become citizen and vote for An¬ 
gelo.’ ” The man smiled with the triumphant air 
of one who has made something exceedingly clear. 

But there was no answering smile on old Judge 
Seifert’s face. “American citizenship,” he said in 
his dry voice, “is not something at the disposal of 
any man who desires to run for public office. The 
privilege of American citizenship is a sacred privi¬ 
lege, open only to those who seek it out of love 
for the American ideal of liberty and justice. 
This applicant,” he said, turning to the Govern¬ 
ment representative, “does not come into this 
court with the proper spirit, and his application 
for citizenship must be denied. Call the next 
case.” 

Antonio Moretto went in bewilderment back 
to his seat trying to comprehend this calamity 
that had befallen him. Friends explained the sit¬ 
uation in hurried whispers; and once he broke 
forth in an excited protest that was instantly 
hushed. Oliver Morse, staring at the judge, felt 
dimly in his soul the solemnity of human drama. 
Citizenship, he had thought, was always given if 
one had the necessary knowledge and had lived 

140 





A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


in the United States for at least five years. But 
here was a man whose application was refused— 
not because he was ignorant of the things a citi¬ 
zen should know but because he came with none 
of the sacred fire burning in his veins. 

For more than an hour, while other applica¬ 
tions were heard, Oliver sat there absorbed, and 
in that hour he did not move. When Court ad¬ 
journed for the day, and Judge Seifert left the 
bench, he sighed, and shook himself, and arose 
and followed the class from the room. “Speed” 
Martin, the nine’s star shortstop, fell into step 
with him. 

“Frosty old bird wasn’t he?” the shortstop 
asked. 

Oliver looked at him blankly. “Old bird?” 

“The judge. He certainly hands it out with 
an ax. Zippo, and off goes somebody’s head. 
Then they bring on the next victim, and he sharp¬ 
ens the ax again.” 

“Is that your idea of the hearings to-day?” a 
voice asked behind them. Prof. Banning had 
spoken. Martin’s face reddened. 

“You know what I mean, sir.” 

“I’m afraid I do not,” the teacher said. “And 
I’m afraid you missed the proper spirit of what 
went on in the court room.” 

Oliver said nothing, but his eyes blinked 

141 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


rapidly behind his glasses. At the corner he 
stopped short for one last look at the Court 
House. His glance rested a moment on the flag 
flying above the granite building. 

The class would probably have been filled with 
amazement had some prophet told them that 
what Oliver Morse had seen in the court room 
that day was to write its result in the history of 
the school. 

Somebody at Northfield had once said—it may 
have been Mr. Banning—that Martin did not 
take school work seriously enough. But this in¬ 
dictment could not be charged against him once 
he stepped out on the baseball field. Here his 
body grew intensely alive, his interest quickened, 
and his eyes flamed with an eager light. 

Jennings, physical instructor and coach, stood 
at the plate to-day, a bat poised in one hand, a 
ball held in the other. 

“Man on first,” he called, and then the bat 
swung out and the ball streaked along the ground 
to the left of the shortstop. 

Martin seemed to move even as the bat was 
hit. His gloved hand reached out, found the 
horsehide, held it. His spikes bit into the ground 
and began to halt him even as he tossed the ball 
to Chandler, the second baseman with almost the 
the same motion with which he had fielded it. 

142 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


The second baseman whipped the ball down to 
first for what would have been, in a real game, a 
sparkling double play. 

“That’s stepping on it,” Martin shrilled. 
“Everybody on his toes.” 

“M an on first and third,” cried the coach, and 
batted the ball down the third-base line. 

Littlefield, the third baseman ran in, took the 
ball on a bound, and drove it home. Hammond 
lined the leather down to second base. The 
throw was high; but a red-stockinged figure 
seemed to soar miraculously into the air and 
pluck the ball as it was flying past. 

“Pretty work,” muttered the coach. Aloud he 
called: “Martini What was the matter with 
you? Why didn’t you swing your arm down at 
the runner?” 

“What was the use, Coach? With all the time 
he had he’d have been curled around the base.” 

“Didn’t you ever hear of a runner oversliding 
the bag?” 

The boy, without another word, went back to 
his place hitting his right hand viciously into his 
glove. When the ball came his way again, he was 
on it like a terrier, and whizzed it across the dia¬ 
mond into the first baseman’s mitt. 

“If he’d only fight that way on other things,” 
the coach mumbled—and sighed. Later, when 

143 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


the practice was over, he fell into step with the 
boy and walked with him toward the school gym. 

“Martin,” he said without preamble, “do you 
know you’re walking mighty close to the line?” 

The boy looked at him with an unworried grin. 
“Classes?” 

“What else? You know what will happen if 
you drop below a 70 average? No baseball.” 

The boy’s grin widened. “I’ve been close to 
the line before. You haven’t seen me falling over.” 

“You can’t skate on thin ice forever without 
breaking through,” the coach said sharply. 

He was worried. He had a pretty clear con¬ 
ception of Martin’s weaknesses and failings. 
The first time a specific danger presented itself 
the boy would be moved by a sense of caution to 
safeguard himself. Then, by degrees, as threat 
after threat would be sidestepped, he would be¬ 
come presumptuous and contemptuous. “This,” 
he would tell himself, “can never happen to me” 
And then, in an unguarded moment, while lulled 
by a false feeling of security, disaster might 
strike him down. The coach had seen it happen 
to other boys in the past. 

From the locker room came the echo of 
“Speed” Martin’s voice, singing: 

Sunshine is my middle name, 

Worries pass me by- 

144 





A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


Jennings gave a wry smile. Instead of going 
down into the gym, he skirted the edge of the 
building and came out on the street. Ahead of 
him, a tall boy with stooped shoulders was shuf¬ 
fling along with his nose almost buried in a book. 
The coach’s steps quickened. 

“Oliver!” he called. “Morse!” 

The student trudged on. 

“Oliver! O you Owl!” 

The boy looked up, with a finger marking his 
line in the book. His head, thrust birdlike to 
one side, surveyed the oncoming man. 

“Were you calling me, Mr. Jennings?” 

“Calling you? I was doing everything except 
throwing bricks at you.” He slipped his hand 
through the crook of the boy’s elbow. “Oliver, 
you’re with the school, aren’t you, heart and 
soul?” 

“You tell ’em I am, Mr. Jennings.” 

Coming from the studious Oliver Morse, the 
sentence was edged with subtle shafts of humor— 
but the coach did not smile. 

“You were at the practice to-day, weren’t you?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I might have known. You miss none of the 
games and but few of the practice periods. Oli¬ 
ver, to a fellow who knows baseball as well, and 
follows it as closely, as you do, there is no use 

145 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


in telling you that ‘Speed’ Martin is just about 
thirty-five per cent, of the team. If we lost Mar¬ 
tin we’d be pretty well shot. But, of course, you 
know that.” 

Strictly speaking, the Middlesex Owl didn’t 
know anything of the kind. But it was rather 
pleasant to be made the recipient of confidences 
from the celebrated Mr. Jennings, and the Owl 
blinked his eyes solemnly and nodded. 

“The truth is,” the coach went on, “I think 
Martin’s getting into trouble in classes.” 

This time the Owl’s eyes did not have to pre¬ 
tend interest and knowledge. He was thoroughly 
aware of the shortstop’s educational shortcom¬ 
ings. More that once he had wondered, back in 
the hidden recesses of his own brain, how any 
person in his right senses could translate French 
as weirdly as Martin translated it. 

“If he gets less than a 70 average,” Mr. Jen¬ 
nings said, “he’ll be barred from baseball. Then 
what will happen to the nine? Where will the 
school be in the Monroe game? It’s a question 
of standing by Northfield, Owl, and I’ve come 
to you.” 

The Owl had a moment of panic. “You’re not 
thinking of asking me to play in Martin’s place?” 

The coach suppressed a smile. “No; not that. 
I want to know, if the time comes when Martin 

146 





A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


needs it, if you’ll tutor him a bit for the good of 
Northfield.” 

The Owl promised to lend his aid, but added 
with brutal candor that it wouldn’t be easy to 
teach Martin from a book. Nevertheless, he 
was puffed up a bit because he had been singled 
out as the only man who could save the star 
shortstop to the nine. 

“This is all confidential,” Jennings reminded 
him. 

“Confidential,” the Owl said seriously, “and 
a sacred trust. Yes, sir. When Martin is ready, 
let him come to me.” He went on his way, and 
before walking half a block had his nose into the 
book again. 

Next morning Jennings told Martin of his 
conversation with the Owl. The shortstop was a 
bit resentful. 

“Isn’t this crowding things?” he demanded. “I 
haven’t flunked yet.” 

“The time to get in some work is before you 
do flunk,” Jennings retorted sharply. “If you 
take my advice you’ll hunt up the Owl and make 
up some lost ground.” 

“Well—I’ll try to,” Martin said after a mo¬ 
ment. That afternoon he played against Bar¬ 
ringer High. When the game was over his line 
in the scorebook read: 

147 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Martin 


R 

2 


H O A 
3 3 7 


E 

0 


“Ten fielding chances without an error,” Jen¬ 
nings murmured, “and three hits out of four 
times at bat.” The game had been played out 
of town, and when the trolley reached the Bank 
corner in Northfield the coach swung down to 
the ground and waited for his star player. 

“You won’t forget about the Owl, will you?” 
he asked. 

“I may look him up to-night,” said Martin. 

However, he didn’t. His three-base hit in the 
sixth inning had won the game, and it was pleas¬ 
ant to idle along Main Street after supper and 
enjoy the adulation of those students he chanced 
to meet. Trouble at the moment seemed obscure 
and remote. The taste of triumph dwarfed 
every other issue. 

Jennings came to him four days later. “Did 
you see the Owl?” 

“No.” Martin felt the need of justification. 
“The practice has been running late, and at night 
I’ve had to study-” 

The coach’s smile was disconcerting. “Prof. 
Matier tells me you’re a total loss in French. 
You haven’t been studying French, have you?” 

Martin flushed. “I’ve never been any good at 
languages.” 


148 





A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


“Prof. Banning tells me you’re down to about 
60 this month in history and civics.” 

“What are you doing?” the shortstop de¬ 
manded hotly; “checking up on me?” 

“Checking up on your classroom average,” 
the coach answered. “Why shouldn’t I? Just now 
it’s as important as your fielding or batting aver¬ 
ages. When you stand up to recite you’re pinch 
hitting for the nine. You’ve been doing some 
rotten pinch hitting—I’ll say that for you. You’re 
in a slump. You’ve got to pull yourself together 
and come out of it.” 

Jennings had put the case in the language of 
baseball. The argument touched Martin where 
he was weakest. The anger died out of his eyes, 
slowly, slowly—but it died. 

“I never thought of it as pinch-hitting,” he 
said gruffly. “I don’t like study: a page of this 
to-day, a page of that to-morrow, over and over 
and over agaim It’s stupid stuff. My father insists 
that I go through high school and I’m going to 
go through just as easily as I can. He knows I 
don’t like to pore over lessons.” 

“Suppose you didn’t like balls batted to your 
left,” said the coach. “What would you do in 
that case?” 

“I’d have somebody bat to my left side until 
I could take anything that came to my left.” 

149 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“How about applying some of that same spirit 
to classes?” 

“But I don’t give a darn about classes and I do 
like baseball.” 

The coach shrugged his shoulders. “You’re 
pinch-hitting, remember. You don’t particularly 
like left-handed pitchers; but if I sent you in to 
pinch-hit against a left-hander you’d go up there 
with your teeth set.” 

“You mean I ought to go at lessons with my 
teeth set.” 

The coach made no comment. 

“All right; I’ll take up with the Owl next week. 
I can’t do it this week. There’s a couple of pic¬ 
tures coming to the Franklin theatre that I want 
to see.” 

But next week was too late. Friday afternoon 
Martin was called to Dr. Rue’s office and told 
that as his general average had fallen below 70 
it would be necessary to bar him from school ath¬ 
letics. There was a game scheduled for that af¬ 
ternoon. He went to the field and sat on the 
bench out of uniform, and glowered at Post who 
had been sent out to take his place. 

Northfield won, but that did not bring any ease 
to Martin’s soul. A hundred stings of self-re¬ 
proach arose to taunt him. An hour here and 
there with his books, an hour here and there with 

150 





A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


the Owl, and he could have avoided this. He 
had expected cutting sarcasm from the coach and 
bitter speech from Capt. Littlefield. After the 
first expression of dismay Littlefield had frozen 
into silence. Jennings had made no comment at 
all. And Martin had walked out to the bench 
tortured all at once by the knowledge that neither 
was surprised. As a pinch-hitter he had failed. 
They had expected it. 

He came back to the gym. After other games 
he had held his place there by right, elbowing for 
his turn under the showers, taking part in the 
good-natured horseplay. To-day he felt as one 
apart. One by one the players dressed and de¬ 
parted, spoke to him as they went out in a man¬ 
ner forced and constrained. He read in their 
manner condemnation of his failure, and it rasped 
along the raw of his wound. Ill at ease he stood 
up and turned toward the door. 

“Martin!” Jennings had spoken. He waited. 
The coach led him outside and closed the door. 

“Where will you be at about nine o’clock to¬ 
night?” 

“Home.” 

“Be sure you’re there. I’ll be along about that 
time.” 

Martin had no appetite for supper. Uncer¬ 
tainty as to what the visit might mean made him 

151 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


ill at ease, and he counted the minutes until the 
clock drew around toward nine. Going down to 
the gate he waited, and presently saw the coach 
swinging down the street. And a clutch of fear 
seemed to grasp at his throat. 

“Martin,” Jennings said abruptly; “there’s just 
one chance for you.” 

The shortstop’s heart leaped. “To play?” 

“To play. I’ve been button-holing faculty mem¬ 
bers since to-day’s game ended. If you can make 
a showing this month that will run you above 70 
you can play the June games.” 

Martin’s face fell. 

“We play Monroe on June 12,” the coach said 
significantly. 

The big game I The game that brought out 
the crowds, and the glory, and the only real cheer¬ 
ing of the year. Even in the soft darkness of the 
spring night the coach could see the wistful 
shadow that swiftly passed over the boy’s coun¬ 
tenance. 

“I have spoken to the Owl again,” Jennings 
went on. “Frankly, Martin you’ve thrown down 
the nine, but the nine hasn’t thrown down you. 
We want you back for your own sake as much as 
for anything else. We want you back because it 
isn’t the Northfield idea for a fellow to drop away 
from the thing he can do best. It means a month 

152 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


of hard study, but the Owl is willing to give up 
the time to put you through. Is it a go?” 

u Yes,” said Martin. “I’ll see him in the morn¬ 
ing.” After the coach was gone he sat on the 
porch steps with his chin cupped in the palm of 
one hand. The month of May would not take 
long to pass. He would go to the field every day 
and keep in practice. A sudden, disturbing thought 
frowned his forehead. The Owl would want him 
in the afternoons. He sat up a bit straighter and 
tried to arrive at a conclusion dealing with the 
amount of time it would be absolutely necessary 
to give to shove up his general average to a point 
that would permit him to go back into the game. 

In the morning he waited outside the school 
for Oliver Morse. And yet, though he had come 
seeking this interview, it was the Owl who began 
the conversation. 

“We will have to work hard,” he said, his head 
cocked to one side. “We can start to-day—one 
hour every day after classes, and perhaps two 
hours on Saturdays. Then, if you’ll study about 
two hours every night-” 

Martin broke out in protest. “What do you 
think I’m after, a Commencement medal?” 

“You have a lot of ground to make up,” the 
Owl said bluntly. 

“What of it? That doesn’t mean I’m out for 

153 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


a record. Just get me back over 70 and we’ll 
stop all the study periods right there.” 

The Owl shook his head. “You can’t get good 
passing marks that way.” 

“Who’s asking for good passing marks? Just 
passing marks will suit me. If it wasn’t that I 
have to get that 70 to play baseball I wouldn’t 
bother with the stuff at all.” 

“But where would you stand in the June exam¬ 
ination?” 

“I may not come back. I’ve been after my 
father for two years to let me quit. June exam¬ 
inations aren’t worrying me. I want baseball.” 

The Owl stared at him incredulously. Himself 
a student, taking the best of all the school had to 
offer, he could not quite understand this other 
boy. “But Mr. Jennings said-” he began. 

“O, Jennings.” The shortstop’s manner was 
flippant. “He’s talking through his hat. Just 
get me a 70, that’s all.” 

Behind their thick lenses the Owl eyes grew a 
trifle stern. “There has been a mistake. I thought 
you wanted to make up on school work. I didn’t 
think you just wanted to use my time to skin you 
through. What good will it do to get you a 70 
now if you are going to drop right back again? 
That’s cheating the school.” 

“Doesn’t the nine figure in this?” Martin de¬ 
manded, nettled. 


154 





A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


“You wouldn’t be going to the nine with the 
proper spirit,” the Owl said. “The 70 per cent, 
rule for athletics means that a fellow must hon¬ 
estly be entitled to play on the nine. You don’t 
care anything for the marks; you’re just think¬ 
ing about your fun. I can’t help you.” 

“You can’t- Say, what are you trying to 

do, be funny? What’s the matter with me.” 

“You’re not going into this with the proper 
spirit.” The Owl shifted his books under the 
other arm and abruptly began to walk toward the 
school entrance. His stooped shoulders straight¬ 
ened a bit as though to throw off an indignity that 
had been thrust upon him. 

Martin sprang forward and caught his arm. 
“You refuse to go through with this?” he cried. 
“You mean you’ll throw down the nine?” 

“You’re not interested in marks. Why should 
I waste time on you?” 

In the Owl’s sallow face the shortstop read a 
determination that would not be shaken. Anger 
flamed through his veins and echoed in his voice. 

“All right, you fool; but you’ll be sorry. You 
can’t try anything like that and get away with it. 
I’ll tell this all over the school. Before night the 
whole gang will be on your back. You’ll be com¬ 
ing to me to-morrow and begging me to let you 
help me.” 


155 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


But in that Martin was wrong. Neither the 
next day nor in the days that immediately fol¬ 
lowed, did the Owl come forward with overtures. 
He seemed to have dropped the matter from his 
mind. He could “not have been unaware that his 
status in the school had changed. Whereas, in 
his own peculiar way, he had found a peculiarly 
warm place in the life of Northfield, he now met 
coldness. Groups broke up and scattered at his 
approach. But he merely went his way, his ab¬ 
sorption in his books apparently more pronounced 
than before. 

More than one baseball nine has gone to pieces 
under the staggering loss of a star. Chandler, 
at second base, accustomed to playing alongside 
Martin, felt a doubt of Post, the new shortstop. 
Instead of throwing the ball with the superb con¬ 
fidence that Martin would get it, he now took 
time to look before letting the ball go. Play about 
the middle bag became slower, and indecision com¬ 
municated itself to the other infielders. Even 
Hammond, when he knew that Post was to take 
the throw, developed streaks of wildness. And 
Jennings, watching it all with understanding eyes 
and refusing to deceive himself, muttered under 
his breath and ran harassed hands through his 
hair. 

Rahway came to Northfield for the first May 

156 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


game. Northfield had been counted on to win 
without much trouble, but Rahway was the victor 
by a score of 8 to 6. Infield errors had accounted 
for four of her runs. Post had dropped two 
thrown balls and had been the cause of spoiling 
what should have been a sure double play. 

The school blamed the Owl for the defeat. 
Campus gossip said that if the nine had had any 
assurance that Martin would come back, it would 
have held itself together until June. Post was 
rated as hopeless. Only Jennings knew that Post, 
awakening to the fact that the infield doubted 
him, had begun to doubt himself. 

Three days later the nine went to Rawlings 
and was defeated 5 to 3. This time three wild 
throws by Post tossed the game away. And the 
Owl came to school the following Monday morn¬ 
ing to find himself publicly ostrasized and con¬ 
demned. Some one left a card on his desk in 
his home room. It bore three words: 


The Northfield Jackass 


The Owl read the card, holding it close to his 
near-sighted eyes, and then calmly replaced it on 
the desk where he had found it, leaving it where 
all who passed in the a : sle might see it. 

157 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


That same morning Jennings faced hard and 
bitter facts. His nine was demoralized. Panic 
had seized it and had marked it for slaughter. 
It was not a crass, selfish itch for material victory 
that tortured him; the agony that writhed his soul 
was the pain of a designer, a planner, a general, 
who sees a smooth, beautiful piece of baseball 
machinery going to waste and falling into utter 
decay. Two things were imperative. He had 
to steady Post and to make an effort to induce 
the Owl to help. Why the boy had refused to 
come to Martin’s aid he did not know. Martin 
had told him nothing but the mere fact of re¬ 
fusal. Yet the coach was positive that some vital 
reason lay behind the course the Owl had taken. 
Thus far, he had purposely kept his hands off. 
He did not like to mix in on a question of scholar¬ 
ship. But the time had come when he felt that 
he was forced to make at least one effort to save 
the situation. 

His first duty—his immediate concern—lay 
with Post. Post was with the nine. At the best, 
Martin could not hope to join the lineup until 
next month. At noon he went to the cafeteria, 
found Post eating there, and called to him from 
the doorway. 

Two hundred students saw Post thus sum¬ 
moned. An unspoken whisper ran the rounds of 

158 





A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


the table: “Jennings is going to throw the hooks 
into Post.” Post thought so himself. He stum¬ 
bled a bit as he stood up; then he squared himself 
doggedly and walked out to meet the coach. 

“Post,” Jennings said, “you’re not playing your 
game. Why?” 

The shortstop shook his head. “I don’t know.” 
But he did know. Yet he would not say the word 
that would shift any of the blame to other shoul¬ 
ders. 

The coach liked him the better for it. “I do 
know, Post. The nine’s been playing with Mar¬ 
tin so long that it cannot see anybody else in his 
place; and you’re letting that throw you out of 
gear. When I picked you to fill Martin’s shoes 
I knew that you could fill them. I still know it. 
I believe in you and I know you’re going to come 
through. You’ve got it in you.” 

The boy drew a deep breath. There was an 
interval of silence. Then: 

“Whatever comes, Post, you’re going to play 
that position. If you’ve been thinking of being 
benched, forget it. You’re going to stay right 
where you are. That’s the strength of my faith 
in you. Now—what are you going to do for 
me?” 

There was another period of silence. 

“I’m going to play ball,” Post said quietly. 

159 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“You can depend on that.” He went back to his 
interrupted meal in the cafeteria with determina¬ 
tion written into every line of his bearing. 

“That’s one thing less to worry about,” the 
coach told himself, and went off in search of 
Praska. 

“Do you know,” he demanded, “why the Owl 
refused to tutor Martin?” 

Praska shook his head. 

“He’s from your home room. I had an idea 
that a home room that gave Northfield the presi¬ 
dent of its Congress would be interested in why 
one of its citizens didn’t go through with a prom¬ 
ise he made to take Martin in hand. Do you 
know—have you heard—some of the things the 
school has said about the Owl and Room 13?” 

Praska winced. “One of our fellows labeled 
him a jackass,” he said evenly. “But the room as 
a whole believes that whatever the Owl did he 
had a good reason for doing. Littlefield and 
Hammond are on the nine. Littlefield’s captain. 
He’s never asked the Owl for a reason. There 
are some fellows you can always bank on as act¬ 
ing square. A lot of us feel the Owl is one of 
them.” 

“Oh, I know he’s square,” Jennings said wear¬ 
ily. “I shouldn’t have lit into you—but the nine 
is going to smash. Isn’t it just possible that this 

160 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


rupture between Martin and the Owl may be 
one of those cases of honest misunderstanding on 
each side? If it is, we can probably patch it up. 
You can get at the bottom of this. The Owl will 
talk to you. Will you ask him?” 

“Yes,” Praska said slowly, “I’ll ask him. It 
may be a misunderstanding.” 

That afternoon, after classes, he followed the 
Owl to the outdoors and walked with him in si¬ 
lence until they were a block from the school. 

“Owl,” he said suddenly, “Northfield has al¬ 
ways said that a good, stiff game, keenly fought, 
is a fine thing regardless of who wins it. But we 
want to see our teams give a good account of 
themselves. It’s a matter of school pride that a 
Northfield team must show the Northfield spirit. 
Lately the nine’s been losing miserably. No 
fighting spirit, no backbone, no standing up to the 
job. You’ve noticed that, haven’t you?” 

The Owl considered. “I—I noticed we’ve been 
losing.” 

“Have you noticed any change in the nine’s 
play?” 

“Why—” The Owl hesitated. “There—there 
seemed to be something lacking.” 

“The name of that something is Martin. He 
was dropped because his scholarship fell below 
the requirements. Were his averages to go back 

161 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


above 70 he’d be able to play next month. Jen¬ 
nings came to me to-day. I’m only bringing this 
up because you and Martin may have had a mis¬ 
understanding that can be straightened out.” 

“We had no misunderstanding,” said the Owl. 
“I understood him and he understood me.” 

The reply was discouraging, yet Praska went 
on. 

“Jennings says that Martin was anxious to 
make up those marks and that you refused to help 
him.” 

“Martin was not,” the Owl said bluntly. 

“Martin did not come to you for help?” 

“He came to me, but he was not anxious about 
marks—not in the right way. He didn’t want to 
study for class standing; he wanted to study for 
baseball. He told me that as soon as he got 
above 70 he wouldn’t bother me any more. I 
refused to help him through on those conditions. 
He didn’t have the proper spirit. You’re not 
asking me to help him that way, are you?” 

“No,” Praska said promptly. Yet he was puz¬ 
zled. “This matter of proper spirit—just what 
do you mean?” 

“Remember the day Mr. Banning took us to 
the Naturalization Court? Judge Seifert refused 
a man citizenship. He had answered all the ques¬ 
tions; but he wanted naturalization just so that 

162 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


he could get a job. The judge refused him be¬ 
cause he did not come into court with the proper 
spirit. Where my father works a young man 
lost his job because he would do only the things 
he had to do—just enough to get through with 
his job. That was not the proper spirit, either, 
so he was discharged. A school is built for study—• 
other things come after that. If Martin had been 
worried about his studies and had also wanted to 
play baseball, I would have helped him. That 
would have been different. But he wasn’t inter¬ 
ested in anything except baseball, and I told him 
I wouldn’t help him. And—” the Owl’s thin body 
straightened—“and I won’t help him and you 
needn’t ask me to!” 

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Praska said softly. 
Later he reported the interview to Jennings. The 
coach bit his lips. 

“So that’s it,” he said, and his eyes met Pras- 
ka’s. “Sometimes,” he confessed, “you meet a 
spirit that makes you a little ashamed of your 
own. Well, I’ll fight it out with the team I have. 
Perhaps I can give them some of this proper 
spirit.” 

Coming away, Jennings met Martin. 

“Couldn’t you talk the Owl into helping me?” 
the shortstop asked. “You ought to have some 
influence over him.” 


163 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“Have you asked any of the other top-grade 
students to give you a hand?” 

“No.” 

“Been studying any harder in the hope that you 
and the Owl would get together later?” 

“N—No. What was the use? I didn’t know 
if it would do me any good.” 

“In other words,” the coach said icily, “you 
figured you didn’t have much chance and refused 
to run out your hit. You’re not worth helping. 
Turn in your uniform and stop coming to the 
practice.” 

The boy flushed angrily. “Is that how you 
stand by me after I’ve given you my best?” 

“That,” said the coach, “is how I stand by the 
player who has given the school his worst.” 

Next day Martin did not come to the practice. 
His locker, open and empty, served mute notice 
that he was through. In the gym, before going 
out to the field, Jennings faced the squad. 

“There was a time,” he said, “when my heart 
warmed to see you in action. I thought I had a 
ball team; I felt that the school could be proud 
of you. Now I have my doubts. What’s the color 
of your blood, red or yellow? Are you a bunch 
of fighters or a collection of quitters? Show 
me.” 

They were stung by his words. He had never 

164 





A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


talked to them that way before. Aroused by his 
attack they played the game—for a day or two, 
anyway. Then Commodore Farragut High School 
came to Northfield with a team that was notor¬ 
iously weak, and was barely beaten by a score of 
10 to 8. Only one ray of hope stood out at the 
end of the afternoon. Post had played a game 
of desperate strength. He had shut off what 
looked like a winning Farragut rally and had bat¬ 
ted in four of Northfield’s ten runs. 

The coach tried to take heart. “Victory may 
spur them,” he told himself; but in the next game 
Northfield was beaten by a score of 4 to 1 and 
sank into a profound slough of despondency. 

Post came to Jennings after the game. “If— 
if you’d rather try some body else at short—” 
he began with an effort. 

The coach silenced him. “You’re playing the 
game.” 

What followed was a nightmare. Four games 
in a row what should have been won were lost. 
Days when the batting was strong, the fielding was 
wretched; and when the fielding tightened the 
batting fell off. Jennings himself came to the 
verge of despair. But because there was that in 
him that would never bow its head meekly to de¬ 
feat, he strove desperately to breathe life into 
his team and to compel it to play the game of 

165 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


which it was capable. Even the attendance grew 
slim. The small covered grand stand that once 
had groaned under the weight of spectators, now 
showed tier after tier of empty seats. 

And thus came the contest with Hastings, the 
biggest and most important game of the year, 
aside from the contest with Monroe. 

“If there’s one team that’s made to order for 
us, if there’s one team we can always beat,” Jen¬ 
nings said with forced cheer, “it’s Hastings.” 

The nine took the news gloomily. 

“We’ll beat Hastings and beat her with ease,” 
Capt. Littlefield said fiercely. 

None of the players made any comment. The 
practice was lifeless. 

Jennings took to walking the streets of North- 
field at night. “Must find a way to arouse them,” 
ran continually in his tortured mind; “must find 
a way.” And then as he shaved, the morning of 
the game, a plan—a desperate plan—came to 
him. 

The school knew what the Owl had done, but 
had never been told the reason. Praska had not 
revealed what he had learned, not even to Little¬ 
field and Hammond. He felt that defense of the 
Owl, coming from any of the citizens of Room 
13, would have lost force. In some quarters 
there might be a tendency to question it, a sus- 

166 





A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


picion that Room 13 was simply trying to wash 
itself clean. Better, Praska had reasoned, that 
the Owl’s side someday come before the school 
from some other spokesman. 

For that reasoning Jennings now blessed him. 
If the story, with all its surprise, were now told 

to the nine- The lather dried on the coach’s 

face as he debated the plan. In the end his mind 
was made up. As conditions stood, Northfield 
was ruined. Nothing that might be said could 
injure her chances. On the other hand, the shock 
of a new conception, a new vision, may bring a 
rush of spirit and an awakening of fighting in¬ 
stinct. 

No one, watching Jennings in the locker room 
as the nine dressed for the game, would have 
guessed that he was soon to throw dice with Fate. 
Standing at an open window, he seemed to be 
watching the crowds filling the stands and strag¬ 
gling out along the first and third base foul lines. 
Hastings always drew a crowd. He had sent a 
boy to the stand on an errand, and presently saw 
him coming across the outfield toward the gym. 
As the boy drew near, the coach leaned out the 
window—carelessly. 

“Is he there?” he asked. 

The boy nodded. “Center aisle. First seat 
on the left. Seventh row.” 

167 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Jennings thanked him. Three of the Hastings 
players appeared and began to throw a ball 
around. Capt. Littlefield called a “Ready, 
Coach,” and Jennings swung around and faced 
the squad, and searched their faces for something 
that was not there. 

“You’re going out to play Hastings,” he said. 
“Usually the coach talks about how sure victory 
will be if every man will only play the game. 
I’m not going to give you any of that; I wouldn’t 
fool you with it if I did. You’re going to take a 
licking to-day, and you know it.” 

A strangled cry of protest came from the cap¬ 
tain to be instantly hushed. The realization came 
to Littlefield that whatever Jennings was saying 
was being said for a purpose. Players shuffled 
their feet and looked away. Only Post’s eyes 
met the coach’s, level and clear. 

“This nine has been shot for more than a 
month. Why? Because Martin was dropped. 
And who was Martin? A good ball player, but 
never at heart a Northfield fellow. Oh, I know 
he went to the school; so did Benedict Arnold 
wear the uniform of the Colonial army. I warned 
Martin he was heading for trouble. I asked him 
to see the Owl weeks before he was dropped after 
the Owl had agreed to tutor him. Did he take 
my advice? He did not. He sacrificed this nine, 

168 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


he sacrificed the school, he sacrificed every one 
of you because he was too lazy to do the job in 
the classroom that every one of you have had to 
do. And that’s the fellow you’ve let ruin you and 
ruin this nine. He left the squad. It was a 
crisis; I grant you that. The moment he passed 
out of athletics, it became a question whether 
you would hold your spirit for the school or let 
him drag it away with him. And you surrendered 
it to this whiner who wasn’t man enough to 
stand by the ship and play his part. Aren’t you 
proud of yourself?” 

No one answered him. 

“There’s another student who figures in this— 
the Owl. He’s been held up to the ridicule of 
the school. Do you know why he refused to tutor 
Martin? Didn’t it ever strike you that he must 
have had a reason? Martin said to him: ‘Get 
me back to 70; that’s as far as I want to go.’ 
The Owl refused. That wasn’t his idea of North- 
field honor, or of Northfield spirit. He looked 
upon that as a form of cheating. He thought it 
was the same as a man seeking to become a citi¬ 
zen just so that he could get a job for his vote. 
That man wouldn’t be interested in citizenship or 
in the United States—and the Owl felt that a fel¬ 
low who just wanted a 70 wasn’t interested in 
Northfield. He has been condemned; he has been 

169 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


jeered; he has been called the Northfield Jack¬ 
ass—and yet there has been more real Northfield 
spirit in his little finger than there has been in 
this whole nine. You don’t represent the school; 
you represent Martin. You’re his kind.” 

One of the outfielders, red-faced and angry- 
eyed, took a step forward. “That’s not so, 
Coach.” 

“Yes it is, Vance. When Martin was dropped, 
you fellows quit. The only fellow who held on 
was the Owl—he shouldn’t have coached Martin. 
He did the right thing. Where’s Martin to-day? 
Is he in the stands? Has he been to our last two 
games? I doubt it. But you’ll find the Owl out 
there in the first center aisle in the seventh row. 
Post!” 

“Yes, sir.” The shortstop elbowed his way 
forward. 

“Go out there and get the Owl. Bring him 
back with you. He’s going to walk out of this 
place with the squad; he’s going to sit on the 
bench. By Heavens, I want somebody there on 
whom I can put a hand and say ‘This is the North- 
field spirit’.” 

Resentment, beginning as a murmur, grew into 
a volume of sound. Vance’s voice rose above the 
tumult. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?” 

“Why?” The agony of unexpected hope was 

170 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


in the coach’s heart, but his voice was cool. “What 
difference would it have made to you fellows?” 

“A lot of difference. We didn’t see this thing 
right. We’ve got the spirit.” 

“Have you? What kind of spirit?” 

“School spirit.” 

“Anybody can claim that. Prove it?” 

“We’ve got fighting spirit, too.” Vance was 
shaking his fist above his head. 

“Prove that,” cried Jennings. His voice rang 
with the vibrant note that sounds in a bugle call 
that blows the charge. “Fighting spirit, eh? 
Then get out there and beat Hastings.” 

The door of the locker room opened. The 
Owl, stooped a bit, his mild eyes blinking behind 
his glasses, peered at the group. 

“You want me, Mr. Jennings?” 

“Want you?” It was Vance’s hand that fell 
upon his hand. “We’ve wanted you right along 
and didn’t know it. You’re sitting on the bench 
to-day. Do you know what that means? You’re 
our mascot. We’re going to show you what a 
real Northfield team looks like.” 

The Northfield students who had come to the 
game that day had come as a sort of solemn duty. 
They looked more like mourners assembled to 
bury a corpse. Even the school band seemed to 
find something melancholy in the atmosphere, and 

171 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


by and by its music took on the sound of funeral 
dirges. 

When the Owl, summoned by a player who had 
apparently been sent by Jennings, began to walk 
across the field toward the distant gym, a note 
of interest ran through the crowd. When he 
disappeared into the building, interest became a 
buzz of excited comment. But when the gym door 
opened and the Owl came forth with the players, 
arm in arm with Capt. Littlefield, the stand sat 
stunned. Here was something that no stretch 
of the imagination could explain. The Owl did 
not come back to his place in the seventh row. 
On he went to the bench, and dropped down be¬ 
side Jennings, and stuck out his long legs so that 
they were a hazard to any catcher who might 
come running back after a foul. 

Hastings had the field, and was practicing with 
snap and dash. Confidence was reflected in every 
movement of the players. Jennings smiled a 
crooked smile. Why shouldn’t Hastings be con¬ 
fident, facing a team that had won but two games 
out of seven? His own nine had come forth from 
the locker rejuvenated. Would it last? He had 
started them on the road; would they hold it? 
Would the old apathy lay hold of them and throt¬ 
tle their zest? 

He watched with burning eyes when Northfield 

172 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


took the field. Post began to snap out a running 
fire of comment. Littlefield, on third, answered 
him; Stafford, on first, joined them in a deep, bass 
voice. The whole infield became talkative, alive, 
gingery and optimistic. It was a healthy sign— 
but still Jennings waited. 

“They’re making more noise than usual,” said 
the Owl. 

Jennings smiled. So this queer, serious boy 
had noticed the miracle, without altogether un¬ 
derstanding what it meant. The coach pulled his 
cap down low over his forehead. Personally, 
he’d wait until the nine found itself in a tight cor¬ 
ner. Then he’d know. 

The tight corner came in the very first inning. 
Morelli, short and dark and serious, was pitching 
for Northfield, and the first three batters hit him 
safely for two singles and a double. One tally 
came over the plate, and runners were left on 
second and third with none out. 

“Everybody walk up and get a hit,” shrilled 
the rooters who had come with the Hastings team. 

Jennings crossed and uncrossed his legs. The 
next batter hit a hot grounder down the third- 
base line. Littlefield got the ball, held the run¬ 
ner on third, and made a perfect throw to first. 
One out! 

The next boy scratched a hit just over Post’s 

173 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


frantic fingers, and two more runs came in. On 
the throw to the plate, the batter went down to 
second. A moment later the next boy bunted. It 
was a play calculated to demoralize a panicky 
team; but Stafford raced in, scooped the ball with 
one hand, and threw to Morelli who had covered 
first base. 

“Out!” ruled the umpire. 

Jenning’s eyes gave a flicker of admiration. 
This was more like his old fighting, hustling team. 

The next batter hit into left field for a single, 
and the runner on third crossed the plate with 
the fourth run. Vance, fielding the ball sharply, 
threw. The batter, expecting that the throw 
would go to the plate, overran first base and took 
a few steps toward second, ready to dash for the 
middle bag should the catcher fumble. A cry of 
apprehension from the startled Hastings coachers 
sent him diving back for first base, but before 
his feet reached the bag Stafford had the ball on 
his ribs. Vance had thrown to first instead of 
to the plate, and the batter and the coachers had 
been caught asleep. 

And then the doubt, the worry, left Jennings’ 
mind. This was to be a ball game. His hand 
dropped on the Owl’s knee. 

“Son,” he said, “you’re just about worth your 
weight in gold to-day.” 


174 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


The Owl cocked his head to one side, but made 
no comment. All during Hastings’ turn at bat he 
had sat silent. He had been trying to puzzle 
out the mystery of why he had been brought to 
the bench. The same intelligence that he devoted 
to his books had been bent upon the problems. 
He could not fathom why he had been singled out 
for attention, but he did arrive at one conclusion. 
In some fashion he, for some reason, was to be 
an inspiration for the nine. 

The team came in to the bench in no sense de¬ 
pressed. Vance was rattling the bats, looking for 
the one he wanted. Morelli made no excuses, 
but buttoned up a sweater and sat down quietly. 

A high-pitched, nasal voice suddenly made it¬ 
self heard. “You fellows said-” 

Vance, who had found his bat, looked up. 
“What’s the matter, Owl? Going to coach this 
team?” 

The Owl did not smile. “No; but you fellows 
said you were going to show me a real Northfield 
team. Where is it?” 

“Will you listen to what’s giving us the rasp¬ 
berry?” cried Stafford; and Littlefield broke in 
with a: “That’s the stuff, Owl; make them stand 
up to their job.” “We’ll show you something, 
you slave-driver,” Vance vowed, and walked out 
toward the plate. 


175 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Yelps of encouragement broke out from the 
players he left behind him on the bench. And 
again the coach’s hand rested on the Owl’s knee. 

“Son,” he said in an undertone, “you just keep 
them fighting for me.” Even as he said it a strain 
of wonder ran through him. Had any other high 
school team, he speculated, ever been so influenced 
by a student who probably did not know the dif¬ 
ference between an out and a sacrifice hit. 

“Yes, sir,” the Owl said seriously; “I will.” 

Vance crashed a long double into right field. 

“Here’s where we get our four runs,” cried 
Littlefield. 

But Northfield scored only once. Vance came 
home, after taking third on a passed ball, on a 
long fly to the left fielder. 

Morelli shed his sweater and went out to pitch 
the second. “I’ll hold them,” he said to Jennings. 
He did. Not a Hastings runner reached first 
base. 

The game ran on to the fourth inning with 
neither side scoring again. Then Littlefield 
tripled, and crossed the plate on Stafford’s safe 
shot to center. The score was now 4 to 2. 

“We’ll get the runs for you if you’ll hold 
them,” Jennings said to Morelli. 

“I’ll hold them,” the pitcher answered grimly. 
He went out to the rubber—and a Hastings boy 

176 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


hammered his first pitch to deep right for three 
bases. 

Something like a sigh came from the coach’s 
lips. The Owl, who was interested in this game 
as he had never before been interested in a game, 
squirmed along the bench. The stand, used to 
defeat, now sat in tragic silence. 

Morelli’s face seemed to have set into stony 
lines. Twice he pitched, and twice the umpire said 
“Strike.” Once more the pitcher hurled the ball, 
and the batter swung. The sphere arched up 
into the air in a high foul, and Hammond was un¬ 
der it when it came down. 

“One gone,” shrilled Littlefield. “We’ll get 
’em, Morri; watch your step.” 

From the stand naught but a feeble cheer. 

At the plate a Hastings batter crouched and 
made short, nervous movements with his bat. 
Morelli’s first offering was wide. 

“Ball one!” 

The next was better. The batter swung, and 
the ball rose in the air. 

Post turned his back on the diamond and be¬ 
gan to run. The hit was one of those tantalizing 
things known as a Texas Leaguer—too far in for 
the outfielders, too far out for the infielders. 
Twice Post looked back over his shoulders. Now 
the ball was directly overhead; now it was be- 

177 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


ginning to fall in front of him. He seemed to 
quicken his speed, seemed to stretch himself, 
seemed to do the impossible as he reached out and 
clutch the sphere as it was settling to the ground. 

The runner on third bent his head and raced 
for the plate. Desperately Post dug his spikes 
into the turf to check his speed. He slowed up, 
stopped, and in the same instant had swung 
around and thrown. Straight and true the ball 
came on a line and settled into the catcher’s glove 
as the Hastings runner began his slide. Through 
the cloud of dust the umpire’s hand was seen to 
jerk up sharply. 

“Out!” 

Then, and not until then, did the stand really 
awaken to the fact that to-day a new Northfield 
team was in the field. The cheering that, from 
the start, had been spasmodic, broke out into a 
roar of acclaim. Post came running into the 
bench, and the Owl, his long legs prancing, his 
hat recklessly awry, came forth to meet him and 
to throw whirlwind arms about his shoulders. 

The roar from the stands became bedlam. 
Through the crowd ran a whisper that the Owl 
must had had some part in the transformation. 
Good old Owl! Must have been something about 
that Martin business that had never been told! 
.Wasn’t he the funny geezer, bobbing around out 

178 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


there with his head cocked to one side like a bird? 
They began to cheer him then; and the Owl, un¬ 
used to such demonstrations, fled back to the shel¬ 
ter of the bench. 

“I’ve been thinking-” he began. 

“Sure,” scoffed Stafford; “that’s the best thing 
you do. What’s on your mind? Going to take 
the coaching job away from Jennings?” 

“Oh, no,” the Owl said hurriedly; “nothing like 
that. But in one of Napoleon’s battles, when the 
enemy was on a frozen river, he turned his heavy 
guns on the river and smashed the ice. That’s 
the time to do something—when the other fel¬ 
low is at a disadvantage. Couldn’t we—couldn’t 

we-” The Owl was searching for a word. 

“Couldn’t we punt?” 

Vance let out a roar. “You dill pickle, what 
do you think this is, football? In baseball you 
bunt.” 

“I wonder—” said Jennings, and paused. 
“Hastings is pretty well shaken. They’ve lost 
their swagger, and they’re beginning to worry. 
They’re afraid of us. If we couldn’t bunt them 
dizzy and break their ice—” 

“That’s it,” the Owl cried. “Break their ice. 
Get an icepick—I mean a bat—and—” 

Again he had caught their imagination. And 
again Jennings took advantage of the situation. 

179 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“Bunt it is,” he ordered; “and the first fellow 
who fails to run it out goes out of the game. 
Who’s up? You, Peters. See how fast you can 
get down to first.” 

Peters bunted the second ball. The Hastings 
pitcher came in on a wild run and fumbled. Twice 
he clutched at the sphere and twice it eluded him. 
When he got it at last the catcher was praying to 
him to “Hold it” and Peters was panting and 
gasping safely on first. 

The next boy bunted the first pitch. This time 
the catcher and the third baseman started for the 
ball, and the third baseman stumbled and fell. 
The catcher became badly rattled, and though he 
got his hands on the leather he did not know 
what to do with it. The shortstop, who had been 
guarding third, lost his head and came running 
in to advise the catcher. And Peters, seeing third 
unguarded, made a wild dash for the deserted 
bag and made it. 

The Hastings infielders began to quarrel among 
themselves. The Northfield runner on first edged 
off, found himself unnoticed, and began to walk 
toward second. He was halfway to his goal when 
the Hastings first baseman woke up. 

“Second, second!” he screamed. 

The catcher, startled, threw. There was no¬ 
body there to take the throw, and the ball rolled 

180 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


out to center field. Peters ambled home with 
Northfield’s third run, and the other runner went 
to third. 

The stand was in delirium. The Owl’s hat was 
someplace under the bench, and he did not notice 
that somebody had stepped on it and had smashed 
in its crown. 

“Another punt,” he squealed; “one more 
and-” 

“No,” said Jennings; “now is the time to hit it 
out. They’ll be playing in to cut off a run at the 
plate. Morelli, see if you can hit through them.” 

Morelli shot a grounder past the third base- 
man and the score was tied. A minute later Vance 
hammered a triple into left field, and Northfield 
went into the lead. 

Oh, the roar that came from the stand and 
echoed up and down the foul lines! The jubila¬ 
tion that broke out on the bench! This, Jennings 
told himself, was like old times, and his eyes 
rested affectionately on the boy whose unswerving 
vision of what was right had brought all this 
about. 

“Well,” he said, “we punted them dizzy, didn’t 
we?” 

“Yes, sir.” The Owl’s face grew serious. “I 
never knew baseball was such fun. I think I 
made a mistake in not trying to be a player.” 

181 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


The picture of the near-sighted Owl in a base¬ 
ball uniform was ludicrous—but Jennings did 
not smile. 

For Hastings the game was over. The contest 
ran on, inning after inning, but the result had al¬ 
ready been written. One team had tasted victory 
and would not be denied; the other had seen the 
spectre of defeat and had lost heart. When the 
ninth inning began the scoreboard read North- 
field, 9; Opponents, 5. And so it read when the 
last Hastings batter had been thrown out. 

On the bench there was a frenzied scramble for 
sweaters* bats and gloves. The Owl stood up, 
rescued his hat, and took a step after the crowd. 

“Hey,” cried Vance, “where are you going?” 

“Home.” 

“Home? You’re coming to the locker room. 
You were just about the biggest man on this team 
to-day; and you’re going to stay with us to the 
finish.” 

“Proper spirit,” said Littlefield. “Gosh, what 
a difference it make6.” He was thinking at the 
moment that this strange boy wrote himself, on 
the school records, as of Room 13. 

To the Owl it was still incomprehensible. But 
they were plainly sincere, and it had been a long 
time since Northfield students had singled him out 
for company. He went along. 

182 




A MATTER OF PROPER SPIRIT 


Jennings brought up the rear. He saw Praska 
leave the stand and went on with a new thought 
in his mind. Praska had approved of what the 
Owl had done. Praska had not said so in that 
many words, but it had been apparent during their 
second interview. Praska had not rushed in to 
defend the Owl, but had patiently and silently 
waited for the justification that he knew would 
have to come. Praska had made it possible for 
him to stiffen the nine as it had been stiffened that 
afternoon. 

“Proper spirit,” the coach said half aloud—* 
and smiled. More than one Northfield boy had 
brought it to the game that day» 




CHAPTER VI 


A JOB FOR THE PRESS 

B RISTOW, the editor of the Northfield 
Breeze, bore physical evidence of the fact 
that he was of the fighting, two-fisted 
type. His shoulders were broad, his eyes were 
gray, his chin was square, and his wiry hair grew 
close to his head. He was the kind of boy you 
could count on to have decided opinions and a de¬ 
cided way of expressing them. 

Bristow, at the moment, was scowling. He had 
in his hands a copy of the Morning Herald . The 
scowl grew as he read a story on the first page 
which bore this heading in big type: “Sloan’s 
Family Fattens on City’s Park Pay Roll. Com¬ 
missioner of Parks and Playgrounds Took Care 
of Relatives at Public Expense.” 

Bristow squared his shoulders pugnaciously as 
he finished reading, and slapped one open hand 
against the print. “I admit, Praska, that this is 
good newspaper work. I admit that exposing a 
man who has used a public position of trust to en¬ 
rich himself or friends is a useful service. I’m with 
you on that all the way. I believe that if a news- 

184 


A JOB FOR THE PRESS 


paper discovers that a public official is a scoundrel 
and remains silent, it’s a cowardly newspaper. But 
that has nothing to do with the Breeze.” 

“Wait a moment.” Praska’s voice was earnest. 
“If a newspaper discovers that a public official is 
a fraud, and keeps silent about it, doesn’t it be¬ 
come a party to a fraud?” 

Bristow nodded. “I’ll say so.” 

“Then the school paper” . . . Praska’s 

voice rose a bit . . . “then the school paper 

that knows that a bad condition exists in the 
school and refuses to fight it, makes itself a party 
to that condition.” 

“That,” Bristow said hotly, “is a matter of 
opinion. I feel that a school newspaper ought to 
keep out of agitations. There’s enough of that 
in the daily newspapers.” 

“I’m talking about service,” Praska said pa¬ 
tiently, “not agitations. If it were not for the 
truth-telling newspapers the public would never 
know who were the rascals. A school paper should 
be just as fearless for good government in the 
school. What’s happening at Northfield? Or¬ 
der in the halls has gotten away from us this week. 
Yesterday there was pushing on the stairs and 
Joe Clayton fell and sprained his ankle. Do 
you think any great newspaper would remain si¬ 
lent with a riot going on in its city?” 

185 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“Northfield hasn’t had a riot.” 

“We’ve had disorder.” 

“Well, why doesn’t the faculty suppress it?” 

“The faculty will have to, if it keeps up. You 
know how Dr. Rue feels. He wants the students 
to learn to control their own affairs. Right now 
we’re falling down. That’s where you come in. 
You sound the call and rally the crowd. Look 
what a black eye it will be if the faculty has to 
come in and run this thing for us. It would be the 
same as though Washington had to step in and 
run the affairs of a broken-down state.” 

“And because of that you expect me to pitch 
into the school with red hot editorials and stir up 
a smash?” 

“I expect the Breeze to do its duty toward the 
school,” Praska said sharply. 

“The Breeze does just that when it refuses to 
blister every time anything goes wrong,” Bristow 
retorted. “Anyway, what has become of the 
Safety Committee? Can’t the Safety Committee 
handle order? Isn’t Lee Merritt chairman of 
that committee? Do you want me to attack him?” 

From the start Praska had hoped that the 
Safety Committee would be left to sleep in peace. 
It was the weak spot in his argument. Now that 
it had been dragged in he knew that he was 
beaten. 


186 




A JOB FOR THE PRESS 


“I haven’t asked you to attack anybody,” he 
said. “I asked you to stand for the best interests 
of the school.” 

Bristow flushed. “I’m entitled to my own opin¬ 
ion of how the Breeze can serve the best interests 
of the school. The Safety Committee comes under 
your Congress. I think if you would pay more 
attention to that committee, instead of telling me 
how to run my paper, you’d find that Northfield 
is staggering along with some dead wood.” 

Praska knew the name for the dead wood . . . 
Lee Merritt. Bristow had been right on that. 
And the editor had been right in saying that the 
Safety Committee should have made short work 
of the disorders that had broken out in the halls. 

The Safety Committee had been called into 
power to police the corridors and to report open 
lockers. When the need arose, it did not have 
the judgment to extend its police power in another 
direction. A wise chairman, realizing the funda¬ 
mental danger of corridor disorders, would have 
checked them on general principles or at least 
have made some move to show that he was taking 
note of the ringleaders. But Merritt was neither 
strong, nor wise, nor energetic. The opportunity 
to take charge of the situation passed. What had 
been, one day, a temporary lapse, became before 
the week was out a settled habit. 

187 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


What made the whole situation worse, to one 
of Praska’s mood, was that Merritt had been 
warned. Perry King, wearing the Safety Com¬ 
mittee emblem on his arm, had gone to him im¬ 
mediately the corridor disorders had started. 

“A gang out there’s been rushing and jostling 
on the stairs,” he had said. “Big Jim Fry’s the 
ringleader. They’ll try it out at the next period 
bell—they always do if they get away with it 
once. We’ll jump in and order them back into 
line as soon as it starts. That will put a quick 
bee on funny work in the halls.” 

Merritt, whose spirit was docile, whose nature 
was timid, who lacked the iron to dare, grew 
alarmed at the suggestion. “We haven’t any au¬ 
thority to do that.” 

“Have they any authority to crowd on the stairs 
and break the lines? Hasn’t a citizen the right 
to stop a crime if he sees it being committed? 
Didn’t we learn that in our civics? What those 
fellows are doing is a school crime. If somebody’s 
got to take a chance on maybe going a step too 
far, isn’t it better for us to take that step on the 
right side than for them to take it on the wrong?” 

Merritt had been unable to make up his mind. 

Perry had shrugged his thin, narrow shoulders 
and had gone off, to complain bitterly to his 
friends, in confidence, that what the Safety Corn- 

188 





A JOB FOB THE PRESS 


mittee needed most was a chairman with convic¬ 
tions and the courage to see them through. 

Praska was thinking of all this as he watched 
Bristow disappear up the stairs, and then turned 
his own steps toward Room 13. The school day- 
had not yet begun. Mr. Banning caught his eye 
as he came through the doorway and motioned 
him forward. The boy came to the desk at 
which the teacher sat. 

“George,” said Mr. Banning, “I’ve been think¬ 
ing about those hall disorders. Have you had 
any idea of using the Breeze?” 

“I’ve just had a talk with Bristow. He won’t 
touch it. He thinks a school paper ought to 
leave that stuff alone. He says crusades and agi¬ 
tations should be left for the daily newspapers. 
The Breeze is a mighty good paper, but I don’t 
think it gets any better by refusing to do what 
ought to be done for Northfield.” 

Mr. Banning nodded ever so slightly. He 
recognized in the boy a spirit that put the school 
and its welfare first, a type of citizenship that 
later would put the country and its problems first. 

“What will you do now?” he asked. 

“I’ve called a meeting of the Congress after 
school to-day,” Praska answered. 

But he had no great hopes that much good 
would come from this. When all was said and 

189 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


done, the real trouble with the Safety Committee 
was Lee Merritt’s leadership. A word, a hint, 
and forces could have been set to work in the 
Congress that would speedily have forced Mer¬ 
ritt to resign. Hostile criticism would have en¬ 
gulfed him. Yet Praska had no heart for so 
ruthless a course. Had the chairman of the 
Safety Committee been purposely lax, Praska 
would have fought him without mercy. But Mer¬ 
ritt was acting to-day as he would act to-morrow 
and all through his life—wabbling when he should 
have been firm, hesitating when every necessity 
called for prompt action, afraid, even when he 
was in the right, to touch the quick of fortune and 
take his chances. Merritt should not have been 
chairman of anything. He lacked the essential 
strength. The fault lay with the school itself for 
ever having signalled him out and given him 
power. 

And so when the Congress, composed of dele¬ 
gates from all the home rooms, met soberly and 
seriously that afternoon, there was a woeful lack 
of suggestion, a pitiable attempt to carry an air 
of faith in what they were doing. Merritt sat 
there, making notes, wrinkling his forehead in 
thought, blindly unaware of the glances of doubt 
and perplexity that were bent on him by boy dele¬ 
gates and by girl delegates. Presently, with the 

190 




A JOB FOB THE PRESS 


bright air of one who has struck upon a rare and 
fortuitous thought, he arose to his feet. 

“Mr. Chairman.” 

“Mr. Merritt,” said Praska. 

“I believe that this matter should come within 
the activities of the Safety Committee. As you 
know, this committee was brought into being to 
patrol the corridors and guard clothing lockers. 
We were not told point-blank to preserve order 
and I did not want to do anything that might 
arouse criticism and get any member of the com¬ 
mittee into trouble.” 

Perry King gave a groan. 

“I beg pardon,” said Merritt questioningly, 
thinking that some one had spoken. 

The meeting was silent. 

“I move,” Merritt went on after a moment, 
“that the Safety Committee be enlarged and em¬ 
powered to handle the disorders in the hall.” 

“Why enlarged?” Betty Lawton asked. 

“Why—er—there aren’t enough of us to 
handle the situation. We need a big committee. 
I think we ought to ask students to volunteer for 
the work. Get in fresh blood. The more stu¬ 
dents we have on the committee the greater force 
we’ll have.” 

Praska, with an effort, kept his face expression¬ 
less. Poor Merritt! Mere numbers, the chair- 

191 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


man knew, never yet made a committee formid¬ 
able. And yet it might be that fresh blood would 
work some sort of miracle. It was worth trying 
because it was the only thing left to try. Praska 
caught Perry’s glance; a signal passed between 
them. Perry, astounded, sat still. The signal 
was repeated. Perry arose to his feet. 

“I second the motion,” he said gruffly, and sat 
down. After the meeting he waited for Praska 
and hotly demanded an explanation. 

“Let him try it,” Praska said patiently. “It 
can’t make things any worse. He’s entitled to a 
try, anyway.” 

“You watch,” was Perry’s gloomy return. 
“Something funny will come out of this.” 

Something queer did come of it. Next morning 
Merritt posted a notice asking for volunteers to 
join the Safety Committee and preserve discipline. 

Big Jim Fry was the first student to send in 
his name. 

Three of Northfield’s citizens reacted charac¬ 
teristically to Jim Fry’s advent into the forces of 
law and order. Praska took the news with a 
worried frown between the eyes. Merritt grew 
flustered and spoke nervously of asking the Con¬ 
gress to rescind the order to increase the com¬ 
mittee. Perry openly and bluntly spoke his mind. 

“Personally,” he said, “this looks to me like 

192 




A JOB FOR THE PRESS 


some kind of dodge. This fellow’s record has 
never been any too good. Yet you can never tell. 
He may come into the committee and do a real 
job. Sometimes fellows are like that—give them 
a little responsibility and they stick out their 
chests and go right to it. We’ve got to take him 
in; but I’ll tell anybody who likes to know that 
I haven’t much faith in what’s running around 
inside his head.” 

“We—we don’t want any trouble in the com¬ 
mittee,” Merritt said with a greater show of 
nervousness. “We’ll have to trust that Fry . . .” 

“Trust nothing,” Perry said grimly. “I’m go¬ 
ing to keep an eye on him.” 

Jim Fry would have been amused in his bois¬ 
terous way had he been aware of Perry’s deter¬ 
mination. The idea of Perry—thin, gangling, 
serious Perry—keeping an eye on him, would 
have filled him with uproarious mirth. Nature 
had made Jim Fry burly and belligerent. Physical 
strength had made him the leader in a certain 
crowd in the school, physical strength was the 
only attribute that could draw his respect. Perry’s 
idea of watching him would have sent him off 
intd roars of laughter. 

His distorted, mistaken sense of humor had 
prompted him to start the disorders that had 
spread through the school corridors. It had 

193 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


P'" ' 1 " —i 

seemed a good lark. A craftier idea moved him 
to join the Safety Committee. As a member of 
the committee he would wear a committee arm 
band. He could, if he so elected, patrol the cor¬ 
ridors for a part of each study period—this in 
addition to his regular periods of patrol. Under 
school law and school custom he would be im¬ 
mune from questioning as to why he came and 
went. He would be free to come and go—and 
the Candy Kitchen, home of sundaes, sodas and 
delectable sweets, was only a matter of a dozen 
steps across the street. 

From the moment school opened in the morn¬ 
ing until it closed in the afternoon, with the ex¬ 
ception of the noon hour, the Candy Kitchen was 
forbidden ground. More than one Northfield 
boy, hazarding the blockade for the sake of a 
frosted chocolate or a pineapple frappe, had been 
discovered in his sin of transgression and had 
been punished. Twice had Jim Fry suffered pen¬ 
alty. But now he saw before him a safe passport 
to forbidden delights. As a member of the Safety 
Committee he could openly cross Nelson Avenue 
and enter the place. His excuse could always be 
that he was searching for Northfield defaulters. 
Not that he ever expected to be questioned; but 
it was good to have an excuse already prepared 
should the need for it ever arise. 

194 




A JOB FOB THE PRESS 


A day later he received his black arm band 
with the letters “S. C.” standing out in white. 
The same day he left the school and crossed to 
the Candy Kitchen. Charlie, the clerk behind 
the soda fountain, viewed him with surprise. 

‘‘You on the committee?” 

Jim grinned. “I’ll say so. Any of our fellows 
around? No? Well, I’ve done my duty and 
looked for them. Let’s have a vanilla, and don’t 
be stingy with the measure.” 

Charlie scooped out the ice cream. “I thought 
you committee fellows were the honor boys and 
couldn’t take advantage of things to sneak over 
here for a drink?” 

“Don’t make me laugh,” said Big Jim. As 
he drank his soda he glanced down at his arm 
band and chuckled. The soda finished, he crossed 
the street casually and entered the school. 

Perry King, from an upstairs hall window, hap¬ 
pened to see Big Jim go to the Candy Kitchen, 
and return. He went downstairs and met Fry 
as he entered the building. 

“Anybody over there?” Perry asked. 

Big Jim’s eyes narrowed. “No. I had a hunch 
I’d find a certain fellow busy at Charlie’s counter. 
I guess I was too early. Suppose you keep a 
watch on the place.” 

Why, Perry reflected, should Big Jim’s eyes 

195 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


i 


have changed? “I guess I won’t waste time on 
it,” he said dryly, and walked away. 

After that, in some strange fashion trouble 
seemed to lift its head in whatever part of the 
school building Big Jim was on duty. If a sud¬ 
den clamor of boisterousness broke out in a cor¬ 
ridor while classes were changing rooms, it was 
usually a corridor in which he was stationed. If 
the lines on the stairs suddenly began to race and 
grow confused and disorganized, it generally hap¬ 
pened to the lines over which he was supposed to 
exercise supervision. With the greatest frank¬ 
ness in the world he would tell Lee Merritt about 
it. 

“It started,” he said, “and I hustled right for 
the middle of it, but by the time I got there it 
was all over. You couldn’t tell what had hap¬ 
pened or who had started it. You couldn’t pin it on 
anybody.” 

Merritt, for all that he had spoken of trusting 
his first recruit, was beginning to have doubts as 
to that recruit’s probity. “It’s funny,” he said 
hesitatingly, “that these things always seem to 
happen in your territory.” 

The veins in Big Jim Fry’s neck stuck out. His 
face grew red. “What do you mean by that?” he 
demanded. 

Merritt—easy-going Merritt—shrank from 

196 




A JOB FOR THE PRESS 


controversy. “Why, nothing much, only it—it 
does seem funny.” 

Big Jim’s savage look became a smile. He had 
seen boys before this falter at the menace of his 
bulk. The conversation had taken place near the 
foot of a stairway; he failed to notice that a form 
had come down the stairs and had stopped one 
tread from the bottom. 

“I’m going over to the Candy Kitchen to see 
if any Northfield fellows have sneaked over,” he 
said. “I suppose that looks funny, too, doesn’t 
it?” 

Merritt did not answer. Big Jim swung around 
with a swagger, and stopped short. Perry King 
was on the stairway. 

“Got another hunch that a Northfield fellow 
is going to be there?” Perry asked. 

Big Jim was puzzled. He could never quite 
fathom this boy who surveyed the world so ser¬ 
iously through brooding eyes. Sometimes he 
thought Perry’s questions were asked in good 
faith; sometimes a jeering irony that he could 
not decipher seemed to mock him. 

“No,” he said, after a moment; “I’m just going 
over on general principles.” 

That, Perry decided, was honest at any rate. 
He could have slipped across the street later to 
see what Big Jim was doing; but that would have 

197 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


been spying and he revolted against the thought. 
When he had said that he would keep an eye on 
him he had meant it in a sense of supervision, not 
as a threat of espionage. Perry had a strong 
sense of idealism. To him, the fact that he could 
go anywhere during the school day without hind¬ 
rance or question, raised the Safety Committee’s 
work to the heights of sanctity. He might sus¬ 
pect that some member of the committee was 
playing false, but he would not stalk him for veri¬ 
fication. Something within his soul would not 
permit him to skulk after the shadow of one 
whom Northfield had raised to a place among a 
trusted few. 

And yet suspicion grew slowly and impercep¬ 
tibly. Twice, within the next four days, there were 
renewed disturbances in Big Jim’s territory. Mer¬ 
ritt, faced with the grim knowledge that a larger 
Safety Committee had not put an end to dis¬ 
orders, came to Perry. 

“Pm taking Big Jim off corridor duty at period 
time,” he said. “Fill in for him, will you?” 

Perry nodded. “Have you told him?” 

“Yes. I told him he had been on for two weeks 
and could shift to something softer.” 

Perry grunted. It was like Merritt to avoid 
speaking the unpleasant truth. He went down 
to his place, and was there when the 10:40 bell 

198 




A JOB FOB THE PRESS 


sounded. Out into the corridors poured North- 
field’s eight hundred. The lines, like undulating 
snakes passed up and down the stairs. All of a 
sudden there was a rush, a scattering of students 
who were pushed from behind, confusion, and 
subdued laughter from those who had engineered 
the stampede. 

Perry’s voice rang out. “Lewis! I saw that. 
Step down here, please.” 

A boy, wearing the flush of guilt, dropped out 
of one of the lines. Somebody murmured “Gosh! 
I thought this was Big Jim’s station, what’s hap¬ 
pened to him today?” The changing classes 
passed on, but Lewis remained behind, scowling 
and uncomfortable. 

“I’m going to hand in your name,” Perry said. 
“What’s your Home Room . . . 11, isn’t 

it? I hope they give you a dressing down that 
will make you sick.” 

Lewis shuffled his feet. 

“This rough-housing’s got to stop. You fel¬ 
lows won’t be satisfied until the faculty steps in 
and suspends student participation in school gov¬ 
ernment. Then, after the student body gets a 
black eye, yoii’11 be satisfied.” 

“Why don’t you do some reforming in your 
own committee?” Lewis demanded sulkily. “You 
yank me out, but just because Big Jim is a mem- 

199 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


ber of the committee you let him get away with 
murder.” 

“No member of the committee gets away with 
anything,” Perry said sharply. 

“Except ice cream and sodas at the Candy Kit¬ 
chen?” Lewis retorted. “What do you think he 
goes over there for every day? I’ve heard him 
telling how he gets away with it.” 

Perry’s hand shook a little as he entered Lewis’ 
name and room number in his memorandum book. 
Abruptly, after that, he went off to look for Mer¬ 
ritt, whom he knew he would find on the second 
floor. The chairman of the Safety Committee 
was standing near the head of the stairs, dejection 
in every line of his figure. 

“Where’s Jim Fry?” Perry demanded. 

“Candy Kitchen,” Merritt answered listlessly. 
“I—I think he’s gone there to buy something; his 
talk of scouting for fellows who have skinned 
over there is just a blind. I saw him taking money 
from his pocket as he crossed the street.” 

“What are you going to do about it?” 

“What can I do about it?” 

“You can go over there and see what he’s up 
to. I don’t like this thing of spying on a commit¬ 
tee member, but Jim Fry’s been carrying his game 
too far. He’s even been boasting of how he gets 
away with it. I heard that a little while ago. 

200 





A JOB FOR THE PRESS 


What he needs is somebody to go over there and 
tell him that the game is up.” 

But Merritt’s expression showed that the curse 
of indecision was working its spell upon him. 
Perry started down the stairs again. 

“I’m going after him,” he flung back over his 
shoulder. 

Big Jim, leisurely consuming a plate of choco¬ 
late ice cream, looked up as Perry pushed open 
the Candy Kitchen door. He called a startled 
“Hey, Charlie; get this out of sight.” 

The soda clerk, busy washing glasses, looked 
up blankly. “What’s that?” he asked. 

Then it was too late. Perry was in the store. 
Big Jim, with an angry shake of his head, helped 
himself to another spoonful of the chocolate mix¬ 
ture. 

“You know the rules,” Perry said quietly. 

“I know what will happen to you if you try to 
start anything with me,” Big Jim said savagely. 
The veins were standing out on his neck; but if 
Perry noticed them he made no sign. Only by 
the manner in which the nostrils of his thin nose 
had grown pinched was it evident that he had 
settled himself to an unswerving purpose. 

“You’re not worthy of that band on your arm,” 
he said. “I’m going to take it from you.” 

Nobody heard the door open nor saw Lee 

201 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Merritt come in as one on an unhappy errand. 
Charlie, the clerk, stood with towel in his hands 
forgetful of the glasses he had started to dry. 
Perry took a step forward. 

“What are you going to do?” Big Jim de¬ 
manded. 

“I’m going to take away your arm band.” 

“You try it and I’ll squash your nose so that it 
will touch your ears.” 

Plainly Big Jim expected that threat to settle 
the matter. As he stood there, his shoulders 
hunched, his head thrust forward on its thick neck, 
he looked to be twice the size of the pale, thin 
boy who confronted him. 

Perry came forward another step. Big Jim 
drew back his arm. “I’ll flatten you,” he warned. 

“Keep your arm that way,” said Perry. “It 
will be easier for me to take out the pins.” 

Big Jim wanted to drive out with his fist—and 
couldn’t. Some power outside himself, some 
power he could not explain, some power greater 
than all his bulge of muscle, would not let him 
strike. Surprise, amazement, consternation, un¬ 
easiness, passed through the shadows of his eyes. 
He felt the touch of fingers, felt the pins come 
out, felt the band loosen, saw it pulled away— 
and stood with his arm drawn back and permitted 
it to be done. 


V 


202 





A JOB FOR THE PRESS 


“If I hit you one-” he began uncertainly. 

Perry folded the band and put it in his pocket. 
“Jim Fry,” he said evenly, “I charge you with be¬ 
ing a traitor to the ideals of Northfield High. I 
summon you to stand trial before the Northfield 
Congress ” 

The trial was held three days later in an ante¬ 
room of the office of Dr. Rue, principal of the 
school. At the invitation of the Congress, Dr. 
Rue and Mr. Randolph, the faculty adviser of 
the Congress, were present; but they took no offi¬ 
cial part in the proceedings. Praska presided. 
The other members of the Congress, twenty-odd 
in number, sat as a jury serious and silent along 
one side of the room. A boy named Maxwell, a 
senior, was to present the case against the defend¬ 
ant. Big Jim had been told that he could select 
a student to represent him. Instead he came in 
alone, swaggering and insolent. 

“I don’t need counsel,” he told Praska. “I 
can take care of myself.” 

“This case is serious,” Praska reminded him. 

Big Jim’s glance, as it swept the jury, was dis¬ 
dainful, “I’m glad you think so,” he said, and 
sat down. At first he had been of a mind not to 
bother to come to the trial. Then he had decided 
to put in an appearance and show how little he 
thought of the proceedings. 

203 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Maxwell cleared his throat, consulted some 
notes, and called Lee Merritt to the stand. 

“You are chairman of the Safety Committee 
of this school?” 

“I am.” 

“Is Jim Fry a member of the committee?” 

“Yes; but he has been suspended.” 

“Did you see Jim Fry go to the Candy Kitchen 
last Tuesday?” 

“Yes. I saw him cross the street and take 
money from his pocket and that made me think 
he was going over there to buy something.” 

“Did you follow him over?” 

“I . . . Perry King was the first to go over. 
When I got there Perry was telling him that he 
was going to take the band from his arm.” 

Maxwell then called Perry to the stand. 

“Did you go to the Candy Kitchen last Tues¬ 
day during school hours?” 

“Yes.” 

“Was Jim Fry there?” 

“Yes.” 

And alternate question and answer continued 
until the scene in the Candy Kitchen was painted 
in. 

Big Jim sat sprawled back in his chair, taking 
note of the witness with a bored air. At the end 
of the testimony, he ignored Praska’s invitation 

204 





A JOB FOB THE PRESS 


to question Perry, just as he had declined to cross- 
examine Merritt. 

Solemnly, with Praska bringing up the rear, 
the Congress retired to consider a verdict. Big 
Jim, with his hands in his pockets, wandered out 
after them. The main hall was full of students 
waiting to learn the result of the trial. Two or 
three of Big Jim’s friends came to him and 
pointed to Perry and Merritt in earnest conver¬ 
sation near the entrance doors. 

“Aren’t they members of the Congress any 
more, Jim? They didn’t go upstairs with the 
others.” 

“They can’t vote on the verdict,” Big Jim an¬ 
swered. “They were witnesses.” 

“How did it go—did they rip it into you?” 

“It’s a joke,” said Jim. He believed it, too. 
Schoolboys like himself going through the mo¬ 
tions of a solemn trial, just as though what they 
did amounted to something. A grin touched his 
lips. 

After a time Praska came down the stairs and 
led the Congress back to the trial room. Stu¬ 
dents in the hall made a silent path for them, awed 
by something in the bearing of these representa¬ 
tives who held so much of the school’s destiny 
in their hands. Big Jim shambled after them, 
suddenly ill at ease in spite of himself. 

205 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


There was a scraping of chairs as the Congress 
settled into its seats. Ott, one of the members, a 
commercial student, took a stenographer’s note¬ 
book from his pocket, opened it, and held it ready 
on his knee. Still the same silence that had been 
with the Congress as it came down the stairs! 
Praska stood up at his place. 

“James Fry,” he said, “arise and hear the sen¬ 
tence of the Northfield Congress.” 

Big Jim remained in his seat. 

“Stand!” Praska cried. His lips were set in a 
thin line. The indignant flame of an outraged 
loyalty burned in his eyes. He was very stiff, 
very straight, the very figure of Justice inexorably 
dealing out its decrees. 

Slowly—slowly—Big Jim came to his feet. A 
force he could not comprehend compelled him to 
obey. He was witnessing a moral victory, and 
did not know it. 

“James Fry,” Praska began, “you have been 
duly found guilty of the charges brought against 
you. Judging by the way you have behaved your¬ 
self to-day, you are either unaware of the serious¬ 
ness of what you have done or else you are totally 
unable to realize the Northfield spirit. In either 
case you are to be pitied. 

“But pity cannot blind us to the fact that con¬ 
duct such as yours is dangerous. You deserted 

206 




A JOB FOR THE PRESS 


the duty you were given to do. Northfield called 
upon you to stand by her, and you promised that 
you would, and then stole away. You are as bad 
as the sentry who, in time of war, sells out his 
company to the enemy. 

“How could you do it? Have you no sense of 
pride in what this school has done? Do you ever 
feel the thrill of American history—the struggle 
of the weak and scattered Colonies, the sufferings 
at Valley Forge, the day of victory at Yorktown, 
the growth of a nation ? But the young American 
army had its Benedict Arnold, and Northfield has 
you. Knowing what was at stake, knowing that 
there was talk of the faculty’s stepping in and 
telling the students that they had failed, you sold 
us out. Arnold sold out for money and for re¬ 
venge. You were cheaper than that. You, a 
Northfield fellow, sold out Northfield for a plate 
of ice cream. Jim Fry, how could you do it?’’ 

A twitching spasm ran through Big Jim’s 
nerves. Had he and Praska been alone he would 
have laughed this off; but every member of the 
Congress was listening to this arraignment. A 
dull red stained his cheeks, and his gaze held it¬ 
self fixedly upon a far corner of the room. 

“A wrong as great as yours,” Praska went on 
after a silence, “demands a great atonement. Will 
you apologize to Northfield in the auditorium?” 

207 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Big Jim’s head went back. “Before the whole 
school?” 

“Yes.” 

“If you think you can get away with anything 
like that on me, you’re crazy.” 

“Then the sentence of the Northfield Con¬ 
gress,” Praska said clearly, “is that you be dis¬ 
honorably dismissed from the Safety Committee 
and that the verdict of the Congress be published 
in the next number of the Northfield Breeze ” 

The case was closed. Big Jim’s eyes had to come 
away from the corner then, and as he swung 
around he faced his jury. 

“I guess I can get along without the Safety 
Committee,” he said. “I never thought much of 
that bunch, anyway. As for the Breeze, that’s a 
laugh.” 

He swaggered oil; and out in the corridor the 
waiting students clustered about him to learn what 
had happened. By and by, when Praska and 
Perry came out, the crowd had dwindled to a 
handful. The two boys went upstairs to the edi¬ 
torial room of the Breeze, and were lucky enough 
to find Bristow reading a batch of poems that 
some ambitious student had dropped into the con¬ 
tribution box. Praska explained that the Con¬ 
gress wanted the verdict in the Fry case published 
in full. 


208 




f 


A JOB FOB THE PRESS 


* 

A 


Bristow frowned and tapped an impatient pen¬ 
cil against his desk. “You know I don’t believe 
in that sort of stuff, Praska. We talked it over 
a couple of weeks ago. Now you come in here 
to fight it out all over again.” 

“No,” Praska shook his head. “I didn’t come 
here to argue anything. I came here to ask you 
to do what the Congress, every member of it, 
thinks ought to be done.” 

“The whole Congress?” Bristow asked 
thoughtfully, and got up from his chair and be¬ 
gan to pace the room. After a time he halted 
in the center of the floor. 

“What right,” he demanded, “has the Con¬ 
gress to tell me what I ought to publish?” 

“The Congress is the voice of Northfield,” said 
Praska. 

Bristow sighed. “That’s what has got me 
licked,” he said after a moment. “When you and 
I had it out downstairs it was my opinion against 
yours. This is different. This is the combined 
opinion of the Congress against me. In America 
the majority rules. That’s democracy. That’s 
fair. Bring me that verdict and I’ll put it in.” 

Bristow published the Fry storey in the next issue 
of the school paper, under a single-column head 
on page one : 

DISMISSED AND CENSURED 

209 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


Big Jim bought a copy on the outdoor steps of 
the school, saw the story, and began to grin. But 
the grin faded as he read. Back there in the trial 
room, Praska’s denunciation had been momen¬ 
tarily disturbing—that and nothing more. Read¬ 
ing the verdict now in cold type seemed to make it 
deadly effective. Phrases that had glanced off 
his callousness began to sear him. He had been 
able to walk out of the trial room and forget 
what Praska had said, but this could not be for¬ 
gotten. Praska’s voice had been of the moment; 
this thing, printed from type, had a solid and 
enduring quality. It would be read by eight hun¬ 
dred students, to-day, to-morrow, all through the 
week. A copy of it would be preserved in the 
bound file in the library. 

That day was the most uncomfortable that Big 
Jim had ever lived. Every time he saw students 
reading the paper he thought they were reading 
the verdict in his case. If he saw three or four 
talking, he was sure they were talking about him, 
—and in many cases they were. Every eye that 
met his seemed to reflect the question that Praska 
had asked: “How could you do it?” 

No one flung him a cordial or casual word; 
some cut him dead; two or three—Hammond, 
the football captain, among them—parked scath¬ 
ing disapproval into a short sentence. 

210 






I 


A JOB FOB THE PRESS 


Big Jim’s boisterousness departed. He became 
quiet. His manner grew subdued. The same 
force that has controlled men of all ages, in all 
walks of life had been brought to bear upon him 
in the sheltered confines of his school. It was the 
pressure of public opinion, then, as always, so 
largely shaped by the press. 

And another was to feel that pressure on that 
day. At noon Merritt came to Praska, where the 
president of the Congress sat alone in a corner of 
the cafeteria. 

“George,” Merritt said, “I’m going to resign 
as chairman of the Safety Committee. I should 
have done it long ago. I didn’t realize what a 
rotten job I was doing until that story came out 
in the Breeze about Big Jim. There’s been talk 
since then. Some of the fellows have been asking 
why I didn’t go over to the Candy Kitchen after 
Big Jim—why Perry had to do it? Well, why 
did he have to do it? Because I fell down on the 
job. I guess I’ve been falling down right along, 
only I didn’t look at it in that way. Anyway, 
I’m out, and the Congress can name some fellow 
who’ll make a better chairman than I have made.” 

During the last period of the day Mr. Banning, 
in the civics classroom, had to call Big Jim three 
times before he could arouse him from his 
thought. At the end of the period the teacher 

211 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


stopped the boy at the door and drew him to one 
side. 

“What’s the matter, Fry?” he asked. 

Big Jim did not answer. 

Mr. Banning made a shrewd guess. “That 
story in the Breeze get under your skin?” 

The boy nodded. “I deserved it, I guess. I’m 
not kicking. Only . . . only . . 

“Only it seems cruel to publish it where every¬ 
body can read it, and carry it around with them, 
and read it again. Jim, there was never a man 
with a bad record made public who didn’t feel the 
same way. The Breeze couldn’t harm you if 
you had not first harmed the school. What you’re 
thinking now is that this thing may hang over 
you all through high school. It may—it may not. 
It all depends upon you. There’s a way to live 
it down.” 

“How?” The boy was eager. 

“By playing the game the Northfield way and 
with the Northfield spirit.” 

Big Jim squared his shoulders; then, with no 
further words, walked out of the civics classroom 
with his head up. 




CHAPTER VII 


NORTHFIELD HELPS ITSELF 



|HE EDITORIAL home of the North-field 
Breeze was a corner room on the top 
floor of the Northfield High School. The 
room, tucked into an out-of-the-way wing of the 
building, had the remote appearance of an archi¬ 
tectural afterthought. A stranger, strolling 
through the corridors, might have passed the 
doorway with the impression that the threshold 
probably led to a storage chamber for janitor’s 
supplies. It was a dull and uninviting doorway. 

But once inside the room one would have recog¬ 
nized the calling of the place. Three scarred 
tables held implements that possessed an editorial 
look—ancient type-shears loose on their hinges, 
and disordered piles of school papers and maga¬ 
zines. Drawings that had had their day of re¬ 
nown in the school weekly hung framed upon the 
walls; and there was also a well-preserved letter 
of advice that a famed novelist had once written 
to a Breeze staff. That letter was each succeeding 

editor’s heirloom, to be duly pondered and 

213 



THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


handed down, in time, to his successor. A dic¬ 
tionary on a stand was near the tables, a filled 
bookcase stood against one wall, and between 
two windows was a rack holding newspapers to 
which the school had subscribed. Four news¬ 
papers hung suspended from rods—the New 
York Times, the Chicago Daily News, the Kansas 
City Star and the Philadelphia Ledger . 

At one of the windows Bristow and Praska 
stood staring out at a stretch of vacant building 
lots that lay parallel with the rear of the school 
building. Praska was the first to speak. 

“If something isn’t done,” he said, “it will be 
the same story that it was three years ago. North- 
field won’t have a chance.” 

Bristow pursed his lips. “Three years ago the 
election came right after that outbreak of typhoid 
fever. Everybody was taking sides on the ques¬ 
tion of pure water. Nobody was thinking about 
an athletic field for the high school. Scarcely 
anybody bothered to vote yes or no on the ques¬ 
tion of buying the lots back there.” 

“It will be the same this year,” said Praska. 
“This time everybody is interested in Commis¬ 
sioner Sloan. His side is saying that the parks 
and public improvements were never kept up bet¬ 
ter than he has kept them. The other side is 
saying that he’s done nothing but make a lot of 

214 




NOR THFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


soft jobs for his family at public expense. Every 
night there are street corner meetings. Nobody 
says a word about the referendum on the high 
school field. It’s just a side issue. It’s up to us 
to see that it stops being a side issue.” 

Bristow, his lips still pursed, whistled a pre¬ 
occupied, aimless, almost silent tune. 

“We’ve been to the editor of the Morning 
Herald /' Praska went on, “and we’ve had a talk 
with the editor of the Evening Star . We asked 
them to get behind the athletic field and boost it. 
But both papers are attacking Commissioner 
Sloan. They won’t go off on any side issues, 
either. What’s the result? They’ve each given 
us one little item buried on an inside page—a 
couple of inches in each paper. That won’t get 
us any place. There’s only one road left. We’ve 
got to make our fight in the Breeze.” 

“We won’t reach much of the public,” said Bris¬ 
tow. 

“We’ll reach the parents of our eight hundred 
students. Less than eight hundred voters bothered 
to say either yes or no three years ago.” 

Bristow, still whistling that almost soundless 
tune, walked to the middle table of the three, 
and stood there toying with the clipping shears. 

“If the Breeze goes into this,” he said abruptly, 
“it’s going to be mighty hard work.” 

215 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“Everything’s hard,” said Praska seriously, 
“until it’s done.” 

Abruptly Bristow dropped the shears. 

“There was a time,” he said, “when I didn’t 
believe in a school paper’s going into this sort of 
thing—but I’ve changed my mind. You can 
count on the Breeze to go with you all the way. 
Something Mr. Banning said in civics last week 
has started me thinking. He said that half the fel¬ 
lows in the senior class would cast a vote in the 
next election for Governor of this State. It gave 
me a jolt to think how close a lot of us were— 
you and me, for instance—to American citizen¬ 
ship. Then he said we don’t keep in touch with 
the people who have graduated from this school. 
I think I know what he meant by that. He 
meant that whenever the school had a fight on it 
ought to call on its graduates for help. It’s going 
to be a fight for that athletic field, and we’re going 
to call on ours. First crack out of the box we 
ought to call on Carlos Dix.” 

“Fine!” cried Praska. 

Bristow grinned. “I thought that would get 
you. You’ve been a Carlos Dix worshipper ever 
since we were in the sixth grade. I’ll bet there 
was a time you dreamed of him at night.” 

“I’m still for him,” Praska said honestly. “He 
was the best quarterback Northfield ever had, 

216 





NOR THFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


and he made a record on the State University 
team.” 

“Oh, he had a good head.” 

“He had something more,” Praska said sharply 
“Not many high school letter fellows ever took 
the trouble to coach a grammar school team as 
he coached ours. After he went to the University 
he wrote us a couple of times and suggested plays. 
He’s kept in touch with us ever since he came 
back and opened his law office. He’s come out 
to the high school games when he could and-” 

“Gag yourself,” Bristow cut in, half in good 
humor, half in earnest. “When I said Dix had 
a good head I wasn’t slamming him. What’s 
your objection to his having a good head?” 

Praska subsided. Bristow, he knew, was twist¬ 
ing words around. At that Bristow excelled him. 
He had never developed the knack of deft, quick 
speech. Yet his mental picture of Carlos Dix 
was as clear and as strong as it had ever been in 
grammar school days—a keen, alert man, gen¬ 
erous, public-spirited, and straight as a string; and 
he remembered that years ago Bristow had twit¬ 
ted him about Carlos Dix even as he twitted him 
now. 

“Let’s get back on the main line,” the editor 
said imperturbably. “We ought to get Carlos 
Dix to use his head in this athletic business. He 

217 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


knows a lot about managing public affairs. My 
father says that in another year or so he’ll be in 
the State Legislature, young as he is. Last fall 
he made political speeches all over the State. 
He’s just the man to help us.” 

“He may be too busy,” Praska suggested doubt¬ 
fully. “He may not have the time for a cam¬ 
paign like this.” 

“Do your years at Northfield mean anything to 
you?” Bristow demanded sharply. 

“Yes,” Praska answered simply. 

“Then if Carlos Dix is the man you say he is, 
the four years he spent at Northfield mean some¬ 
thing to him. Somebody ought to go to him.” 

“I’ll go,” said Praska. 

At five o’clock the next afternoon the elevator 
of the Union Trust Building dropped him off at 
the seventh floor. Carlos Dix’s office was down 
at the end of a corridor—the type of office that 
would naturally be rented by a man whose future 
was bright but whose present demanded economy. 
A girl, sitting at a typewriter desk, disappeared 
into an inner room after Praska had given her 
his name. A moment later Carlos Dix came out. 

“Hello, Praska,” he said with a cordial hand¬ 
clasp. “Come in.” He led the way into his pri¬ 
vate office and motioned the boy to a chair. “Just 
give me a minute to pick up these papers.” With 

218 




NOR THFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


swift fingers he fell to banding legal looking docu¬ 
ments into neat packets that he arranged orderly 
on his desk. 

Praska had a momentary chance to study once 
more this man to whom he had long given a boy’s 
half-hidden allegiance. Carlos Dix’s build was 
still as rangy as when he had shrilled his signals 
to the Northfield eleven. His forehead was high, 
his hair was crisp and brown, his gray eyes looked 
at you openly and directly, and the ghost of a 
smile seemed to tug constantly at one corner of 
his wide, generous mouth. He had that vague 
something that men call magnetism. Lincoln had 
it. So, too, had Roosevelt. 

The young lawyer snapped on the last rubber 
band and turned to Praska with friendly alert¬ 
ness. “Well, what is it?” 

“It’s about the election,” said Praska. “We’re 
going to try to put through the referendum for 
an athletic field, and we’ve come to you for help. 
Northfield hasn’t forgotten you.” 

“I haven’t forgotten Northfield,” said Carlos 
Dix. 

He walked to the wall, and stood looking 
at the framed picture of a football team. When 
he came back to his desk, it was plain from the 
expression on his face that his thoughts were in 
the past. Abruptly he aroused himself. 

219 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“What you want from me,” he said, “is prin¬ 
cipally advice—right?” 

“Right,” said Praska. 

“You’ve got two ways to reach people, v/ord 
of mouth and the printed word. You must use 
the Breeze ” 

“We’re going to. That’s all been planned.” 

“Good. That reaches the parents of eight 
hundred students. You want to hammer away on 
two things, why the school should have an ath¬ 
letic field, and what it will cost. You can easily 
figure the cost. Go down to the Tax Assessor’s 
office in the City Hall. Find out what figure the 
city puts on those lots in back of the high school 
for taxing purposes. Taxing value is always less 
than market value. In this town, add about forty 
per cent, to the taxing value and you’ll have a 
fair market selling price. Then keep yelling 
about how little it will cost each taxpayer.” 

Praska had drawn pencil and paper from his 
pockets and was making notes. 

“Now for your word of mouth campaign. 
Every Northfield student must do missionary 
work at home and with the next door neighbors. 
Each student must centralize on just that—his 
own family and the families next door. Don’t 
spread your fire; center it on the people who know 
you. The athletic field is a side issue in this 

220 





NOR THFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


campaign. The whole town is caught by the 
ear by just one thing—will Commissioner Sloan 
be defeated or re-elected? Half of the people 
won’t even bother to vote on the athletic field. If 
you get out a crowd who will vote ‘yes,’ you’ll 
win. 

Carlos Dix’s voice, vibrant, sure, confident, 
warmed Praska through and through. As he 
shook hands with the lawyer in leaving, he was 
struck anew with the thought that only a few 
short years ago this man of affairs had seen 
little of the world except what went on in a high 
school classroom. 

“I’m glad you came in,” Carlos Dix said, “for 
many reasons,” and Praska left with a feeling of 
deep inward satisfaction. 

The campaign would succeed—he was sure of 
that. But of even greater moment to him was 
the fine way in which the lawyer had responded 
to the call of his old school. 

Next morning he told Bristow the success of 
his errand. “Carlos Dix,” he said enthusiastic¬ 
ally, “didn’t hesitate a minute. You can always 
count on him. Remember the first year we were 
in high school, the time the football team was 
swamped in its first game-” 

“O, bother Carlos Dix!” Bristow said with ir¬ 
ritation. “Let’s attend to this election. You get 

221 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


those tax figures and we’ll begin to stir the pot. 
I’ll do my bit. You get the rest of the school to 
campaign at home and among the neighbors. Just 
get me some figures, and I’ll use them as a peg 
to hang up some snappy articles.” 

Praska got the figures that afternoon. The 
gray-haired chief clerk in the Tax Assessor’s office 
took him back among the assessment books and 
speedily gave him the information he sought. 

“I think I know what you’re after,” the man 
said. “If you high school fellows are going to 
try to get that athletic field, I’d buzz around and 
see the lawyers and the real estate men.” 

“Why?” Praska asked eagerly. 

“Some of the people who own these lots do 
business through lawyers and real estate brok¬ 
ers. If a real estate man has a client who owns 
any of that property he’ll help you put it over 
for the sake of his client. If a lawyer has a client 
who owns some of that property he’ll lend a hand 
to help you put it over, too. There may be a 
little commission money in it for them.” 

Praska thanked the man and walked out into 
the rotunda of the City Hall. The list he had in 
his pocket showed that B. B. Ballinger, North- 
field’s leading real estate broker, owned six of 
the lots in the rear of the high school. There 
would be at least one real estate man, he thought, 

222 




NORTHFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


who would quickly join in the school’s campaign. 

But when he told this to Bristow, the editor 
looked at him with a sudden, speculative smile. 
“Ballinger! Carlos Dix is his lawyer. I wonder 
if Carlos is in this with us to get his little com¬ 
mission money.” 

“Carlos Dix is in this,” Praska said indignantly, 
“to help Northfield. Anyway, there wouldn’t be 
anything wrong in it if he wanted to help Mr. 
Ballinger sell some lots to the town.” 

Bristow grinned. “Stirred you up, didn’t I? 
Thought I’d get you with that. But just between 
you and me, George, if Carlos jumped right into 
this because he wanted to help Mr. Ballinger it 
would be a whole lot more honest if he’d come 
out in the open and say so.” 

“Well—” Praska began weakly, and stopped. 
There was nothing he could think of to say. 

Bristow opened his campaign in the next issue 
of the Breeze : 

Northfield’s Opportunity 

Every person, every community, 
every school is judged by two stand¬ 
ards—the things done and the things 
left undone. In the coming election 
Northfield has an opportunity to sup¬ 
ply a need of Northfield High School. 

The town had the opportunity once be¬ 
fore, but did not see it. It must not 

223 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


be said again that Northfield was blind 
to its chance. 

It will cost, it is estimated, about 
$25,000 for an athletic field. Is this 
too much? It all depends upon what 
the town will get for its $25,000. A 
sick man is usually willing to give all 
his money to regain his health. Doc¬ 
tors say that it is cheaper to stay well 
than to spend money for cures. North- 
field speaks of that field as an ath¬ 
letic field, but it would be better, per¬ 
haps, to call it a “health field.” 

The old Greeks had a saying, “A 
sound mind in a sound body.” The 
class-room provides a mental training 
field, but a basement gym is a poor 
body builder. Exercise should be taken 
in the open air. When it is taken on 
a school field it becomes as much a 
part of a school duty as study. 
Health marks are as important as ex¬ 
amination marks. 

Why did the Greeks insist upon a 
sound mind in a sound body? For the 
same reason that one would not store 
precious oil in a cracked bottle. The 
crack would allow the oil to leak away, 
and a weak body is a crack through 
which energy is lost. The best brains 
have usually gone with rugged bodies. 

Northfield doesn't ask $25,000 merely 
for an athletic field. It asks for an ath¬ 
letic field plus—and the plus is health. 


“That,” Bristow said confidently, “is something 
that ought to strike home.” 

Praska was sure that it would bring results. 

224 






NOBTHFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


And yet, before two days were gone, it was ap¬ 
parent that the article had created scarcely a rip¬ 
ple, The school itself, the party most vitally 
interested, was not impressed. Bristow was dis¬ 
appointed. 

“You ought to go down and see Carlos Dix 
again,” he told Praska. “We’re slipping up some 
place. We’re not getting the most out of what 
we’re doing. Dix may be able to put us on the 
right track. He’ll try hard enough if he’s in 
this to sell lots for Mr. Ballinger.” 

Praska went again to the office on the seventh 
floor of the Union Trust building, carrying with 
him a memory of Bristow’s teasing, exasperating 
grin. But all doubts fled as he sat again beside 
the lawyer’s desk. It did not seem possible that 
those candid eyes, that frank smile, could mask 
a purpose other than absolute school loyalty. 

“I gave you the right road,” the lawyer said 
frankly, “but I sent you up the wrong side. The 
first thing to do is to convince the school itself. 
The students cannot campaign at home unless 
they believe in what they’re doing. Try this. 
Pack together your best arguments for voting 
for an athletic field. Word them concisely and 
forcefully. Give, also, brief, logical answers to 
any objections that have been raised. Keep the 
whole thing short and have it printed on small 

225 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


slips of paper. See to it that there is one on every 
student’s desk. Then send out speakers from the 
Northfield Congress to visit each home room and 
discuss these arguments with the students. Let 
them ask questions and answer them. Hammer 
the arguments home. Sell them to the citizens 
of the school community. Then print a short ar¬ 
ticle on the same lines in the next issue of the 
Breeze, and get the students to take the paper 
home, with the article marked, and sell their dads 
and mothers.” 

The solution was so simple that Praska was 
astounded that neither he nor Bristow had thought 
of it. He stood up to go. 

“Keep in touch with me,” Carlos Dix said. “I’m 
interested in this campaign for more reasons than 
you think.” 

Praska winced. What the lawyer had said 
might mean nothing, yet Bristow had planted the 
seed of a disquieting thought. There would be 
nothing wrong in Carlos Dix working for the 
school and at the same time doing service for a 
client. Nevertheless, the boy had built up a fine- 
spirited, wholly unselfish ideal of the man, and 
the mere thought of commission money in some 
way soiled the beauty of the picture. 

Within the next two days, the argument-selling 
campaign went through as Carlos Dix had planned 

226 





NOR THFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


it. Perry, Lee Merritt, Hammond, Littlefield, 
Betty Lawton, Praska, and others went forth as 
a speakers’ committee from the Congress to in¬ 
spire the school and to rouse it to concerted action. 

“The athletic field is yours,” they cried, “if 
you’ll get out and work. Take the Breeze home! 
See that that article is read! Try to find out if 
your parents will vote for the field on Election 
Day. Northfield is depending on you. If you 
fail her, she’s lost. You are her soldiers and 
we’re here to-day, on behalf of the Congress, 
sounding the battle cry and the charge.” 

The home rooms caught the enthusiasm—there 
could be no doubt of that. Yet two days later 
only seventy-two students had reported votes in 
favor of the field. The results were almost as 
disappointing as they had been before. By that 
time another issue of the Breeze was out with a 
third article, but Bristow made no boasts. 

“My father,” little Johnny Dunn told him, 
“says we have too many things now to take our 
minds off our studies.” 

“Has he read my articles?” the editor de¬ 
manded. 

Johnny Dunn nodded. Bristow looked crest¬ 
fallen. 

At noon a girl came to the cafeteria, where 
Praska was eating, and told him that Carlos Dix 

227 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


had telephoned the principal’s office and had 
asked that he be summoned. The boy went up¬ 
stairs at once. 

“How are things shaping up?” the lawyer 
asked. 

“We can find only seventy-two sure votes.” 

“And the election only eight days away. Son, 
we’ve got to hustle. Can you meet me at my 
office to-night at eight o’clock? Perhaps it will 
be better if you bring a couple of other fellows 
with you. Eight sharp.” 

At eight o’clock Praska was there with Bristow 
and with Perry King. “Sorry,” said Carlos Dix. 
“I thought we’d be able to talk things over here, 
but we’ve got to go elsewhere.” 

They followed him, and Praska was conscious 
of how much they had come to rely upon this 
man’s judgment and leadership. 

Presently they turned in at a walk outlined 
with trim hedge. Bristow dug his elbow into 
Praska’s ribs, and the president of the Northfield 
Congress looked at the editor inquiringly. Bris¬ 
tow merely smiled. And then, as Praska recog¬ 
nized his surroundings, an electric tingle shot 
him through and through. They had come to 
B. B. Ballinger’s home. 

Mr. Ballinger himself opened the door. Car¬ 
los Dix was the last one to enter the house. 

228 






NORTHFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


“How does it look?” the real estate man 
asked in an undertone. 

“I think we’ll put it over,” the lawyer answered 
in the same low voice. 

Ordinarily Praska would not have heard either 
the question or the answer; but to-night every 
sense was sharp and alert. In the living room, 
where the conference was held, he was conscious 
of Bristow, his head tilted a little to one side, 
smiling inscrutably over the heads of the gather¬ 
ing. 

“Mr. Ballinger,” Carlos Dix said, “is a grad¬ 
uate of Northfield High. I don’t think any of 
you knew that. He graduated years ago before 
the present high school was built. But his heart 
is still with Northfield.” 

“So much so,” said Mr. Ballinger, “that I 
want to organize a committee, get after every 
graduate who is in town, and send him out to in¬ 
fluence his friends to vote for the athletic field. 
I thought it best, though, to talk to some of the 
students and see how they felt about it.” 

“I think that’s great,” Perry King said at once. 
Bristow said not a word. Praska nodded— 
slowly—and saw Carlos Dix give him a sharp 
glance. 

The discussion lasted more than an hour. In 
all that time Bristow did not speak. Perry was 

229 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


keen and animated. Praska, confused by the 
clashing faith and despair with which he viewed 
Carlos Dix, found it hard to fix his attentions on 
the conversation. It is agony to see a cherished 
ideal die! 

But in the end he responded to the bright hope 
of the plan. Northfield’s graduates would push 
a quiet, insistent campaign. And in the school 
itself the work would go on. Speeches would 
continue to be made in the home rooms. 

“If we could only get the auditorium for a night 
meeting for parents of students,” Perry cried sud¬ 
denly. “The night before the election; just par¬ 
ents, no outsiders. The students making all the 
speeches. A meeting of those interested in the 
school to talk about a school need. Wouldn’t that 
be one grand, final hurrah?” 

“If you can do that,” said Carlos Dix, “it 
would be almost a winning move.” 

“We can see Mr. Rue in the morning. If the 

Northfield Congress will back this-” He 

looked at Praska, and Praska nodded. 

The boys departed, but the lawyer remained 
behind. There were some personal matters, he 
said, that he wished to talk over with Mr. Bal¬ 
linger. Praska swallowed a queer lump in his 
throat. 

At the first corner Perry turned off and went 

230 





NOR THFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


his way whistling. Bristow and Praska walked 
on together in silence. 

“Mr. Ballinger’s lawyer,” Bristow observed at 
last. 

Praska said nothing. 

“Did you hear Carlos Dix tell him he thought 
they’d put it over?” 

Praska nodded. 

“They held their voices down; they didn’t think 
anybody’d catch what they said. It would be a 
nice thing for Mr. Ballinger if he could get rid 
of all those lots in a lump, wouldn’t it? What 
kind of Northfield man is Carlos Dix anyway?” 

Praska wet his lips. “You aren’t sure-” 

“Oh, rats! I’m not stupid. I can smell some¬ 
thing cheesy when it’s right under my nose. 
What’s Carlos Dix doing, talking big about his 
love for the school and then using us to pull Mr. 
Ballinger’s chestnuts from the fire?” 

“I don’t know,” Praska answered with an ef¬ 
fort. Then, in a voice of misery he added, “I 
wish I did know.” 

“You always did make too much of a hero of 
him,” said Bristow. 

“I believe,” was the report that came from Mr. 
Rue, “that it is entirely proper for the students 
to use the auditorium for a meeting to tell the 
needs of the school to the public.” 

231 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


And then came a time of activity such as North- 
field had not known before. A sign, built and 
painted in the manual training shops, went up in 
the corridor facing the entrance: 

BRING AN ATHLETIC 
FIELD TO NORTHFIELD 

Speeches! Day after day they were heard in 
the home rooms. The great Northfield question 
became “How are those at home going to vote?” 
“Ask dad and mother; they know,” cried the 
Northfield Congress. It became the rallying cry 
of the school. During the last auditorium period 
of the week a student sprang from his seat as 
the dismissal signal was given and as the leader 
of the school orchestra stood ready to start the 
exit march. 

“Everybody in on this,” he yelled. “Make it 
snappy. Are we going to get that field?” 

“Ask dad and mother!” roared eight hundred 
throats; “they know!” 

Praska felt that one spontaneous outburst was 
worth a dozen speeches in the home rooms. The 
steady record of progress was beginning to show 
itself in the reports that came in. The seventy- 
two sure votes had become one hundred and 
eighty-nine, and more than two hundred parents 

232 




NORTHFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


-. . ... --r " _ J 

had promised to come to the auditorium meeting. 
Added to that, Northfield’s graduates, urged on 
by Mr. Ballinger and by Carlos Dix, were wag¬ 
ing their own particular campaign. When the 
lawyer telephoned again that afternoon, Praska 
reported that the situation showed a distinct and 
decided improvement. 

And yet, it was Betty Lawton who called to 
his attention an angle that had been overlooked. 

“We’re forgetting,” she said thoughtfully, “the 
men and women who will be undecided about 
coming to the meeting until the last minute.” 

“You mean that we ought to have some way 
of reaching them right at the end?” Praska de¬ 
manded. “How?” 

“What do the political parties do on election 
day when they’re trying hard to get out the vote? 
Don’t they rush around in automobiles and bring 
voters to the polls?” 

Praska’s hands came together with a crack. 
“Betty, that’s an idea. We ought to be able 
to find a few fellows who could use their father’s 
cars that night. Now we are on the road.” 

A hurried call went to home rooms to prepare 
new lists. What students’ folks would surely 
come to the meeting? Who were doubtful? 
Saturday Praska, Perry, Hammond and Betty 
Lawton came to the school and checked up in a 

233 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


silence that was broken only by the clatter of 
brooms and pans as the janitor and his assistants 
scoured the building. When the job was done 
they had one final collection of names—those on 
whom last minute pressure would have to be 
brought. 

Monday afternoon, after classes, members of 
the Congress began to telephone to doubtful par¬ 
ents. “We need you to-night,” each message 
ran; “you must come.” At six o’clock this special 
pleading was at an end. Some of the parents 
had promised. Some were hopeless. Sixty-five 
homes were still doubtful—one hundred and 
thirty fathers and mothers controlling one hun¬ 
dred and thirty votes. 

Praska wrote out sixty-five names and ad¬ 
dresses for those students who had promised to 
report at the school at seven o’clock with cars. 
This done he was conscious of a dragging wear¬ 
iness and a gnawing doubt. He began to tremble 
with an acute fear that they were doomed to 
failure. At home he ate a hurried supper, and 
when he left the house his father and mother 
were making ready to follow him. A church 
tower clock was striking half-past seven when he 
got back to the school. 

“Did the automobiles go out for their people?” 
he demanded of Perry King. 

234 




NOR THFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


Perry nodded. 

“How many?” 

“Five. None of them has come back yet.” 

“Anybody—anybody here?” 

Perry shook his head. Praska told himself 
that it was too early—told it over and over 
again as though forcing himself to believe in the 
impossible. 

At twenty minutes of eight one car rolled up 
to the curb with three people, and promptly went 
off for more. Praska saw them comfortably 
seated in the auditorium. The place was half- 
filled with students. The three adults seemed 
pitifully out of place—only three! 

Five minutes later a trickle of parents began 
to come through the entrance doors. Boys and 
girls, wearing the arm bands of the Safety Com¬ 
mittee, took charge of them as soon as they en¬ 
tered the building. Praska remained out on the 
sidewalk, watching with fearful eyes the ap¬ 
proaches to the school. 

“If they’ll only come,” he said in a whisper; 
“if they’ll only come.” 

And then the tide set in. From the four cor¬ 
ners of the town they came, men and women 
whose interest had been aroused, whose attention 
had been caught, by an unexpected, insistent, com¬ 
pelling campaign. Some were there out of curi- 

235 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


osity, some because their sense of appreciation 
and admiration had been touched. They passed 
Praska in ones, and twos, and half-dozens. Ex¬ 
ultation rioted in his blood. His weariness was 
gone. 

Perry King, panting, rushed out of the school 
and touched him on the arm. “George! Some 
of our crowd is beginning to go away. The stu¬ 
dents have more than half the seats and the 
crowd can’t find places.” 

Praska made a dash for the building. “Send 
the Safety Committee through the aisles. Get 
the students into the rear of the hall. Tell them 
they’re freezing out our guests. Hurry it.” At 
the door of the school he met the first of those 
coming away. “Please stay,” he cried. “There’ll 
be seats for everybody in a moment. This is our 
first public meeting and I guess we’re a little 
green at it.” 

“Shure, lad,” said a voice, “ ’tis all right. 
We’ve all o’ us got t’ learn our tricks. Back we 

go-” 

And back they went. The ousted students, 
crowding toward the rear of the auditorium, 
made progress confusing for a moment. Just 
then the school orchestra struck up a patriotic 
air. Once more the situation was saved. Praska 
came to the wings at the side of the stage, con- 

236 




NOR THFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


scious all at once that his collar was wilted and 
hopelessly out of shape. 

It had been agreed that Mr. Banning should 
call the meeting to order. At a quarter past 
eight o’clock he stepped out from the wings. A 
cheer came from the students packed like canned 
fish behind the last row of seats. He raised his 
hand for silence. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “you have 
come here to-night at the invitation of the eight 
hundred students of Northfield to hear North- 
field plead her case. My duty will be to intro¬ 
duce the speakers. The students will tell their 
own story. It gives me great pleasure to intro¬ 
duce to you Mr. Perry King, a member of the 
Northfield Congress and chairman of the Safety 
Committee.” 

Hammond said later that, from his part of 
the auditorium floor, Perry looked like a pinched 
and hungry undertaker who had come out to 
hang crepe. But there was nothing melancholy 
about Perry’s address. He had decided to ap¬ 
proach the subject from the angle of civic pride. 
He had a list of all the high schools of the state 
that possessed athletic fields, and before long he 
began to read them. Now and then he would 
pause to say, quietly: “That town is smaller than 
Northfield.” 


237 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“Do you think,” he cried at last, “that all these 
communities have bought athletic fields as a fad? 
If Northfield wanted a place for the exclusive 
use of the Northfield football team, or the North- 
field baseball team, I wouldn’t be out here to¬ 
night asking for your help. There would be no 
reason for the town to spend more than $20,000 
just to provide a playing field for a few teams. 
But this field will be the home of general class 
athletics. Every student will exercise here and 
build up a reserve force of vitality. To-morrow 
this town decides whether Northfield High School 
joins the march of progress or else be known as 
a community that does not understand.” 

Praska’s heart swelled. Perry, he thought, 
could always be counted on to come to scratch in 
an emergency. And then Mr. Banning was in¬ 
troducing Betty Lawton. 

“I appeal to you to-night,” she said, “on behalf 
of every girl who is a Northfield student. We 
do not ask you merely for ground on which to 
play; we ask you for a laboratory where sunshine 
and fresh air will develop alertness and vigor. 
The things that spell health and strength spell 
them the same way for the girl as they do for the 
boy. Have you heard about the flapper slouch?” 

A laugh ran through the audience. 

“The doctors,” Betty said wisely, “are of the 

288 





NORTHFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


opinion that a slouching way of standing and 
walking is bad for the health. The girl who en¬ 
joys vigorous, outdoor exercise does not slouch. 
So to-morrow we ask you to vote for our field. 
Here in Northfield we want you to be proud of 
the girl who gets the sort of red in her cheeks 
that is supplied by nature and not by the kind 
that is bought in the drug stores.” 

There was no doubt that Betty had struck a 
human and a humorous note. The audience had 
warmed up noticeably. Perry, in the wings, was 
poking one of his long fingers into Mr. Banning’s 
ribs, all unconscious of what he was doing. 

“We have them now, sir,” he was saying. 
“Oh, but that hooked them beautifully. Now 
it’s up to old sober-face George to go out and 
finish it.” 

The teacher of civics looked at Praska. “Ner¬ 
vous?” he asked. The boy shook his head. 
“Why should I be? Pm only going to tell them 
facts.” He said it soberly, with no attempt at 
boasting. After all, that was how it seemed to 
him—merely telling Northfield’s needs to the par¬ 
ents of those who came to Northfield High. It 
was like saying what he had to say to North- 
field’s family. 

And yet when he walked out on the stage, his 
breath caught momentarily in his throat. He 

239 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


had not dreamed that so many people were there. 
Row upon row, aisle upon aisle, they filled the 
floor and the balcony. Voters, American citizens 
—and yet they had come out to-night to harken to 
the appeal of youth. Some were there who had 
been in high school when he came to Northfield 
with his freshman class. It made him feel anew 
how short was the distance from the classroom 
to the voting booth. 

“Men and women of Northfield,” he said, “the 
students of Northfield appeal to you for your 
help. This is your school as much as ours; that 
is why you are here to-night. We ask for this 
athletic field for the same reason that you 
wouldn’t go into a shoe-store and buy one shoe. 
One shoe wouldn’t be enough; there’d be some¬ 
thing lacking. And a school without a field that 
the students can feel is theirs is lacking, too. 
Such a school trains the mind, but it does not 
train the body that contains the mind. 

“The World War brought a lesson to America. 
Thousands of men were rejected for army serv¬ 
ice because they were physically unfit. It is a 
duty of citizenship for one to be ready to serve 
his country. A country that gives as much as 
the United States gives, has the right to ask 
something in return. It asks, in times of peace, 
a citizenship that is 100 per cent, active. There 

240 




NORTHFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


can be no 100 per cent, activity in a person 
whose body is not 100 per cent. fit. That is 
what we at Northfield ask—a place where we 
can build up and create the stamina and strength 
necessary for all the emergencies of American 
life. 

“We want you to see, before you go, some of 
the spirit of Northfield. And so I ask the stu¬ 
dents to sing our school hymn, ‘Northfield For¬ 
ever.’ ” 

The orchestra struck up the opening bars, and 
the strains of the song swept through the audi¬ 
torium in a mighty chorus. It was good to hear 
—stirring, heart-warming. Praska, when it was 
done, stepped forward again. 

“Without the fathers and mothers of North- 
field behind us,” he cried, “Northfield could not 
be what it is. I want a big cheer for mother 
and for dad.” 

A cheer leader came running down the aisle. 
“Are you ready? Everybody in on this. Make 
it good. Yip yip!” 

The cheer crashed out probably as no North- 
field cheer had ever crashed before. A storm 
of applause burst from the audience. Seized 
with the inspiration of the moment, Praska 
raised his hands. 

“Won’t you,” he asked the people, “sing 

241 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


‘Northfield Forever’ with us? We want it to be 
your song as well as ours.” 

Many there scarcely knew the words—but they 
had caught the spirit. The deep voices of the 
men, the clear, rising notes of the women, sent 
a thrill of emotion through Praska’s veins. Then 
it was over, and the audience was out of the 
seats and flowing down the aisles toward the 
doors. Northfield had told its story. The cam¬ 
paign was over. It rested for the morrow to 
write a verdict of victory—or defeat. 

Election day brought to Praska a restless 
spirit and a profound depression. Now that 
there was nothing to do but to wait and hope, 
a dozen doubts and fears assailed his mind. 
After all, the arguments that had been so bravely 
given in the auditorium were but the opinions of 
boys and girls. Last night they had seemed 
logical and all-sufficient; to-day they seemed hol¬ 
lowly futile and lifeless. Boys and girls attempt¬ 
ing to influence the opinions of mature men and 
women! From the bleak outlook of to-day the 
whole campaign took on the mask of brazen mad¬ 
ness, a youthful, impetuous, but impotent mas¬ 
querade. 

And yet even in his darkest moments, the thrill 
that had come to him on the stage ran through 
him anew. Then and there, some sixth sense 

242 




NORTHFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


told him, Northfield had won the sympathy of 
its hearers. But would it last ? Had it not been 
merely the triumph of the moment? To-day, 
away from the cheers, and the songs, and the 
enthusiasm, would not men and women lose the 
glamour and view the whole scene lightly? He 
did not know—but he feared. Boys and girls 
trying to sway the judgment of their elders! It 
wore the torturing garments of a gross impos¬ 
sibility. 

He walked with his father and mother to the 
polling place, and waited outside while they voted. 
In spite of his discouragement his pulse quickened 
at the sight of the party workers patrolling the 
sidewalk, the watchers inside, the election clerks, 
and the ballot box on the plain pine table. 

“Well,” said his father as they walked home, 
“there are two votes for the athletic field.” 

Two, and Northfield with 10,000 voters reg¬ 
istered. Two votes seemed so meagre. 

The afternoon ran to its close. Daylight 
faded. The clock struck six, and then seven. A 
tremor shook his body. The polls had closed. 
The result was written. He was in a fever to 
go to the City Hall in the hope of learning the 
verdict, but shrank from arriving too early and 
having to wait in an agony of apprehension. At 
nine o’clock running feet pattering through the 

243 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


street; a knock sounded on the door. Perry King 
and Bristow clamored for admittance. 

“The first ballot box has just been turned in 
to the City Clerk,” Perry panted. “Fourth elec¬ 
tion district of the second ward. The vote was 
sixty-eight for the field and fifty against. What 
do you think of that?” 

“We’ve started something,” Bristow cried ex¬ 
citedly. 

Hope—wild hope—came to Praska. Only 
about half of the voters were bothering to mark 
their ballots on the referendum; but of those who 
had voted, a majority had thrown their support 
to the school. If the same ratio held throughout 
the town— 

“I’ll go back with you,” he said. 

When they reached the City Hall, the City 
Clerk’s office was crowded, and it was impossible 
for them to worm their way past the doorway. 
They stood in the rotunda, among excited men 
who spoke only of the vote on Commissioner 
Sloan. He was, on the early returns, running 
behind. Out in the street horns began to blow, 
and a procession wormed its way into the build¬ 
ing. The marchers were the supporters of the 
man who was running against the Commissioner. 
From time to time election boards, having 
finished their count, came in with their tally- 

244 




NORTHFIELD HELPS ITSELF 


sheets and their ballot boxes and surrendered 
both to the City Clerk. 

By half-past ten Commissioner Sloan’s defeat 
was a certainty. The horn blowing had become 
a raucous din. Above the heads of the press of 
people Praska saw the tall form of Carlos Dix. 

“Mr. Dix!” he shouted. “Mr. Dix!” 

The lawyer looked about him, doubtfully. 

“Mr. D ix!” Praska waved a frantic hand. 

The lawyer-saw them then, and forced his way 
through the crowd. One look at his face, and 
Praska read the story of victory. 

“The field will win by six or seven hundred 
votes,” Carlos Dix said. “Your meeting last 
night just about put it through. Praska, Pm 
proud of you. I look upon this as a big thing.” 

“It’s certainly a big thing for Northfield,” said 
Perry. 

“It’s a big thing in many ways,” Carlos Dix 
said gravely. 

Bristow flashed Praska a wise, knowing look. 
And at that moment Praska’s taste of triumph 
slowly turned to a taste of ashes. 





CHAPTER VIII 


NORTHFIELD TO NORTHFIELD 


^OR eight innings Northfield had been 
pecking away, only to have rally after 
rally die just when it seemed that runs 
were about to be scored. The score-board, fas¬ 
tened to one wall of the shack that served as a 
dressing house, read: Monroe, 5; Northfield, 3. 
And so when Northfield came in to take her 
ninth inning turn at bat, a dozen or more students 
began to worm their way out through the crowd. 
One stopped for a moment to call back over his 
shoulder: 

‘‘Coming, Praska?” 

“I think I’ll wait,” George Praska answered 
calmly, “and see Northfield win.” 

The student went off grumbling. “That’s the 
;worst of being president of the Northfield Stu¬ 
dent Congress,” he complained. “Even if the 
team hasn’t a chance you’re expected to stick 
around to the finish.” 

But Praska was not staying there as a matter 

246 




NOBTHFIELD TO NOBTHFIELD 


of duty. He expected the Northfield nine to win. 
He had a faith in the school as certain as it was 
sublime. Northfield was never beaten, he told 
himself, until the last man was out—and usually 
not then. 

Out on the diamond the Northfield coachers 
were entreating the boy at the plate for a hit. 
The pitcher, superbly confident, floated a slow 
curve toward the plate. 

“Strike one 1” ruled the umpire. 

“Take your time,” barked the coacher at first 
base. “Only takes one to give it a ride. Use 
your eye, old man.” 

The batter’s eye ordered him to offer at the 
next pitch. He met the ball, and it rose weakly 
in the air. The pitcher was under it when it came 
down. 

“Out!” ruled the umpire. 

Another Northfield boy was at the plate. The 
pitcher, studying him, decided to try an inshoot. 
The ball broke in too far, and plunked into the 
batter’s ribs. A din of sudden hope broke from 
the Northfield rooters as he trotted down to first, 
rubbing his side. 

“We’re off,” cried Praska. “Now there, Lit¬ 
tlefield, show us an old-time hit. Come on. Lit. 
Right into it.” 

Littlefield hitting savagely, drove the first ball 

247 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


) " " "" " 

far into right field. The boy on first raced all 
the way to third, and when the outfielder threw 
home to cut him off should he try to score, Lit¬ 
tlefield romped down to second. 

Praska had grown hoarse. “Now we’re got 
this game where we want it. Here’s your chance, 
Chan. Crack into one and make Northfield 
happy.” 

Chanler, the little second baseman, was 
crouched at the plate, nervously fidgeting the toe 
of his left shoe along the ground. The pitcher, 
so confident a moment before, now looked wor¬ 
ried. Twice he shook his head in answer to the 
catcher’s signals, and when he did hurl the ball 
the pitch was wild. 

“Look out!” shrilled the coachers. 

Chanler dropped to the ground. But his bat, 
trailing back over his shoulder, got in the way of 
the ball. The unexpected shock of the meeting 
twisted the bat from his hand. The ball popped 
into the air and fell gently a few feet in front of 
the plate. 

The coachers had become madmen. “Up 
.Chan! Run it out. Fair ball. Come to life!” 

Chanler scrambled to his feet and dashed for 
first. The Monroe infield, momentarily upset, 
shrilled orders, pleas and advice. The catcher, 
stumbling as he jumped forward, went off balance 

248 





NORTHFIELD TO NORTH FIELD 

i " " ■■ ■ " 

and was out of the play. The pitcher, racing in, 
snapped up the ball with one hand and had a 
vision, out of the corner of his eyes, of the 
Northfield runner on third trying to score. He 
wasted a precious moment deciding that the run¬ 
ner on third was only trying to rattle him and had 
already swung about and run back to the bag. 

“First!” roared the catcher. “Great Scott, 
throw it. Throw it!” 

The pitcher threw, and the throw was high 
over the first baseman’s frantic hands. 

A yell of triumph came from Praska. “O-o- 
o-o-h ! Look at that!” 

The boy on third had scored, Littlefield had 
romped to third, and Chanler, rising out of a 
cloud of dust, was brushing his uniform at second. 
The score was now 5-4, with the tying run and 
the winning run waiting to come over the plate. 

“Tuttle’s up,” someone shouted. Slowly— 
slowly—the crowd became silent. Tuttle was 
the weakest hitter on the team. Yet, as he strode 
out swinging two bats, the cheering broke out 
again as though the students fully expected him 
to win the game. It was Northfield spirit! 

Something, though, was happening on the 
bench. A boy sprang out and called aloud. Tut¬ 
tle paused and came back. And now another 
boy stepped out, bent heavy football shoulders 

249 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


r - — 1 .— ..... 

and found a bat, and then came limping to the 
plate. Even before the umpire could cry “Ham¬ 
mond now batting for Tuttle” the spectators 
were in an uproar. Boys were telling each other 
that Hammond hadn’t played since he twisted his 
ankle in a practice game five days ago sliding 
home on a home run hit. “Home Run Ham¬ 
mond” they called him now, and called it in a 
swelling chorus that had the fervor of a prayer— 
just as in the fall they called him “Thunderbolt 
Hammond.” 

Hammond, at the plate, was easing himself 
into position. 

“He’s favoring that bad leg,” Praska thought 
in a panic. “If the leg should pain him when he 
goes for the ball, if the pain should throw him off 
on his swing—” 

“They only want Ham to send a fly to the out¬ 
fielders,” a voice said behind Praska, “so that the 
tying run can score. He’d never be able to run 
out an infield hit.” 

“If he does hit to the infield and if Lit is 
thrown out at the plate-” another voice began. 

“Sure, Ham will be doubled at first and the 
game will be over.” 

Praska’s hands began to sweat. The pitcher 
threw the ball. Hammond hopped away on one 
leg. 


250 





NORTHFIELD TO NORTHFIELD 

“Strike!” ruled the umpire. 

“Fooled on an out curve,” muttered Praska. 

The pitcher threw again. The catcher put up 
his mitt for the ball—but the ball never reached 
the glove. 

Hammond swung. It seemed that bat and ball 
met on a line. There was a whistling sound, a 
streak of white, hopeless outfielders running with 
their backs to the diamond, and a pitcher standing 
with drooping shoulders, crushed. Littlefield and 
Chanler scored. Hammond, limping and hop¬ 
ping, went down the first-base path. One of the 
fielders had overtaken the ball; but even as he 
turned to throw it one of Hammond’s feet touched 
the first-base bag and a shriek of jubilation broke 
from Northfield throats. 

Ten minutes later victory still was in the air. It 
was in the bearing of the wave upon wave of 
students who poured up from the ball field. It 
was in the cheers that sounded from the diamond 
where part of the crowd waited for the team to 
emerge from the dressing house. It was in the 
set of Praska’s shoulders as he fell into step be¬ 
side a man and walked with him back toward the 
heart of the town. 

“Quite a game, wasn’t it?” Mr. Banning asked. 
“I was watching you. I thought, at one time, 
that you were going to throw away your hat.” 

251 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“I felt like throwing something,” Praska 
laughed. “That was a finish, wasn’t it?” 

“There’s always a thrill to a good finish,” said 
the man. 

“It takes fighting spirit to make a good finish,” 
the boy said gravely, and with a feeling of pride. 
After all, it was his school that had made it. 

The man walked on in silence, as though some 
phrase the boy had used had plunged him into 
contemplation. And yet, when Praska looked up 
at him questioningly, his eyes seemed to reflect a 
gentle smile. 

“The fighting spirit for a good finish,” he re¬ 
peated. “I’m glad you said that, George. Does 
it mean that you’ve changed your mind about the 
State University?” 

Praska flushed. “No, sir. I—I don’t think 
it’s a question of fighting spirit. Other fellows 
have worked two-thirds of their way through; I 
could do that. But there’s so much to be done in 
the world. I want to get out and begin to do 
my share. I don’t have to go to the University 
to make a good finish.” 

He said it with conviction; and yet, somehow, 
it sounded like a question and not a statement of 
fact. 

“It all depends,” Mr. Banning said slowly, 
“upon what the good finish is to be a part of. 

252 




NOR THFIELD TO NOR THFIELD 


You’ll graduate from high school late this month. 
Your job, thus far, has been education. If you 
want to make a good job of that, your road leads 
straight to the University.” 

The boy’s chin became stubborn. “That’s one 
kind of good finish. I’m thinking of another kind. 
I mean a good finish to the job of doing some¬ 
thing. I want to get out and tackle the things 
that are waiting to be done. Four years more 
of study seems like four years more on the side¬ 
lines.” 

“And yet,” said Mr. Banning, “I knew a man 
who waited three years on the sidelines, and then 
went out and won the biggest game of the year. 
It really wasn’t three years on the sidelines—it 
was three years of studying, and watching, and 
thinking, and learning how.” 

The boy shook his head. His mental processes 
were slow. He felt that he was being entangled 
in a labyrinth of words, worsted not by logic but 
by language. Mr. Banning understood his si¬ 
lence. “You can’t quite see it, can you?” 

“No,” the boy said honestly. 

“I didn’t expect you to—right away. Go back 
to the campaign the school made for the athletic 
field. The school wanted advice. It needed some¬ 
body to show it the way to success. Out of all its 
graduates you went to Carlos Dix. Why?” 

253 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“Carlos Dix had done things.” 

“Right! Carlos Dix had done things. Carlos 
Dix had gone through the State University.” 

“He had done more than that, sir. His cam¬ 
paign speeches, his trials in the law courts-” 

“Yes; after the University had prepared him 
by putting him on the track of accomplishment.” 

They were in the heart of Northfield now, and 
before them was the bank building in which the 
lawyer had his office. Suddenly Mr. Banning put 
his hand on Praska’s shoulder. 

“George, whatever decision you come to finally, 
you want to make sure it’s the right one. Isn’t 
that so?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You ought to talk this over with Carlos Dix. 
iWon’t you do that?” 

The boy hesitated, and in his indecision there 
was something of confusion. 

“There isn’t any reason why you wouldn’t want 
to talk this over with him, is there?” the teacher 
asked in surprise. 

“I’ll talk with him,” said Praska. In view of 
the question, it’s nearness to the truth, he felt 
that there was nothing for him to do but to 
promise. 

But days passed, and he did not go to the 
bank building that housed the lawyer’s office. He 

254 





NORTHFIELD TO NORTHFIELD 


meant to make the visit, and yet he found slight 
and obscure reasons to put it off. In the end it 
was Carlos Dix who called the school and had 
him summoned to the telephone. 

“I’ve been expecting you,” the lawyer said. 
“Mr. Banning told me you were headed this way 
for a debate. When will you be along?” 

Praska’s reply was vague. 

“Make it this afternoon. I’ll be out of town 
all next week. I’ll be waiting for you about four 
o’clock.” 

Four o’clock found Praska walking listlessly 
into the bank building. Yes, the school had called 
upon Carlos Dix and the lawyer had responded— 
but out of that response had come to the boy 
only anguish of soul. Once Praska had carried 
the lawyer enshrined in his heart. The things he 
did had seemed to be the promptings of a loyalty 
that was still, after many years, true to North- 
field High. But the shrine of late, had become a 
tottering ruin. 

In a dull, numbing sort of way Praska had 
grown used to the thought that Carlos Dix was 
not the fine, unselfish Carlos Dix he had thought 
him. But yet another thought ate and ate at all 
the ideals of faith and service his deep and sensi¬ 
tive nature had built up. The dull numbness was 
for Carlos Dix, the man; the ever-present ache 

2 55 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


was for Carlos Dix, the Northfield graduate. The 
boy had built a picture of Northfield alumni hold¬ 
ing to their school as citizens held to their country. 
One line of the school hymn ran: “Thy stalwart 
sons forever true”—and to him the words 
stood for something real and vital. With a boy’s 
ardor for passionate devotion he gave of his soul 
to Northfield High. He reasoned now, as he had 
reasoned before, that there was nothing wrong 
in Carlos Dix working for Mr. Ballinger and for 
Northfield; but Bristow had driven home the be¬ 
lief that to Carlos Dix, Mr. Ballinger’s interests 
had come first. And, to Praska, that was akin 
to sacrilege. 

The lawyer’s hand gripped his with a pressure 
that was firm and sincere. “Where have you been 
keeping yourself? Fine thing, isn’t it, for one 
veteran of Northfield’s fight for a field to drop 
out of touch with another? What’s bothering 
you? Final exams?” 

Praska shook his head. “I want to go to 
work and Mr. Banning thinks I ought to go to the 
State University.” 

Twice the lawyer stole a glance at the boy. “If 
I get too personal, George, why just head me off. 
I want to dig into this thing. Is it finances?” 

“No, sir. I’d have to work only part of my 
way; I could do that.” 


256 




NORTHFIELD TO NORTHFIELD 


“Tired of study?” 

“No. I-” His face flushed. “I want to 

play a man’s part, and a man’s part is out in the 
world. A college man is just an older schoolboy. 
Big things are happening all around, and there 
he is in college out of it all, just like one of the 
audience at a play.” 

“And yet,” Carlos Dix said gently, “about 
eighty per cent, of the leaders in America to-day 
are college men. College years can’t be wasted 
years, George, if they turn out leaders.” 

All that lay behind that thought slowly worked 
its way through Praska’s mind. For the first time 
his own assurance was shaken. 

“You’re like a sprinter,” the lawyer went on, 
“who’s trying to beat the starter’s gun. It can’t 
be done. It brings a penalty, and the penalized 
sprinter is handicapped.” 

Praska’s face had sobered. The telephone on 
Carlos Dix’s desk rang, and the lawyer took the 
receiver from the hook. The boy paid no at¬ 
tention to the conversation that followed. A 
sprinter trying to beat the gun! He could un¬ 
derstand that. He sat staring at the desk, at its 
legal looking envelopes, a few scattered papers, a 
brownish slip of paper— His eyes grew round 
and wide. He had not meant to read anything 
there, but unconsciously his gaze had photo- 

257 





THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


graphed that brownish slip. It was a check. He 
swung his head away, but the photographic vision 
persisted. It was a check made payable to Carlos 
D ix for $1500—and the name signed to it in a 
heavy, easy-read hand was that of Mr. B. B. 
Ballinger. 

The interruption of the telephone had broken 
the thread of discussion. When the lawyer pres¬ 
ently swung around to the boy, Praska’s chin was 
again squared and set. The man seemed to feel 
a vague hostility. Somehow, to go on arguing 
now seemed futile. There was a period of con¬ 
strained silence. 

“Well,” the lawyer said, “we don’t have to 
settle this to-day. There’s another point, though: 
when you go out from Northfield, you’ll wear the 
Northfield stamp. Your success or your failure 
will be, in some respects, a Northfield success or 
failure. You owe it to yourself to equip yourself 
for success, and you owe it to Northfield. If you 
won’t think of yourself, George, think of the 
school. Northfield demands your best. North- 
field will be satisfied with nothing less.” 

And in Praska’s mind, as he listened, was a 
satiric picture of that $1500 check. B. B. Bal¬ 
linger’s money—for what? Was that Carlos Dix’s 
idea of giving Northfield one’s best—or one’s 
second best I To the boy, at that moment, all this 

258 




NOR THFIELD TO NOR THFIELD 


talk of school loyalty seemed a string of empty, 
shallow words. 

He brooded the matter all the way home. The 
evening newspaper lay on the front porch flung 
there by the carrier as he passed. Praska care¬ 
fully strove to undo it without tearing, from the 
mysterious, tight-binding fold which carriers some¬ 
how achieve; then he smoothed out the front page, 
his hands moving absently. And there, for the 
second time that afternoon, his eyes were caught 
by words for which he had not looked. One 
quick survey of the headlines, and he started 
feverishly to read the story: 

According to rumors, graduates of 
the Northfield High School are raising 
a fund that will be used in some way 
for student advancement. According 
to one report the graduates, in celebra¬ 
tion of the athletic field victory, will 
donate the money to the school as a 
fund for the support of athletics. 

B. B. Ballinger, the real estate man, 
is said to be the largest contributor. 

His profits on the land he owns which 
the town will buy as part of the ath¬ 
letic field site, will run about $1500. 

It is reported that Mr. BalHnger has 
already turned this sum over to Carlos 
Dix, who is acting as treasurer of the 
fund. Mr. Dix declined to-day to deny 
or affirm the rumors. 


Praska lowered the newspaper and leaned 

259 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


weakly against the door; his little world had sud¬ 
denly gone topsy-turvy with conflicting emotions. 

Next morning he found Bristow waiting for 
him outside the school. The editor had lost his 
aggressive self-confidence and was frankly 
troubled and ill at ease. 

“Did you read that story in last night’s paper?” 
he demanded. 

Praska nodded. 

“I—I’ve made a mess of things, I guess. I’ve 
thought some rotten things about Carlos Dix and 
Mr. Ballinger. I was sure they were working 
together just to sell those lots to the city, and all 
the while they were Northfield graduates working 
for Northfield.” 

“We both thought it,” Praska said quietly. 

“No.” Bristow, honest in denunciation of him¬ 
self, would not have it so. “You believed in Car¬ 
los Dix. I kept hammering away at you until I 
got the idea of double dealing planted in your 
mind. Remember that night we heard him and 
Mr. Ballinger whisper something about ‘putting 
it over?’ Something tells me he wasn’t talking 
about the lots; he was talking about the fund. 
That’s what he and Carlos Dix were putting over. 
I feel as though I ought to go down to his office, 
tell him I’ve been a fool, and eat dirt.” 

“Not that,” Praska cried in alarm. 

260 




NORTHFIELD TO NORTHFIELD 


“No,” Bristow said after a silence. “He doesn’t 
know what we’ve been thinking, and he’d only be 
hurt. Once I had though of taking a little dig 
at him in the Breeze . Gosh, doesn’t it make you 
feel good to know that Northfield has graduates 
like that I” 

“ ‘Thy stalwart sons forever true,’ ” Praska’s 
thoughts ran, and he smiled as he walked with 
the editor into the building. The shrine again 
stood clean and whole. Carlos Dix was the Car¬ 
los Dix he had thought him. Some day he, too, 
might be able to come back to Northfield and 
offer service. The vision thrilled him. 

The corridors and stairways hummed with ex¬ 
cited speculation. Praska, as he entered the main 
doorway, was besieged by eager questioners. Did 
the Northfield Congress know anything about this 
fund? He shook his head, and pushed his way 
past them, and went up to Room 13. 

There fresh clamor greeted him. All attempts 
to wheedle information from Mr. Banning, Perry 
King said, had failed. 

“There’s something in the wind, though,” Perry 
told him excitedly. “Mr. Banning won’t deny that 
Northfield graduates have started a fund, but he 
won’t say a word about what the fund is for. 
What do you make of that?” 

Praska didn’t know what to make of it. 

261 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


“Quick! Mr. Banning’s trying to attract your 
attention. Maybe he’s going to tell you some¬ 
thing.” 

But when Praska went forward to the teacher’s 
desk, Mr. Banning asked: “Have you seen Car¬ 
los Dix?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The teacher’s eyes asked a question. Slowly 
Praska shook his head; and the teacher sighed 
under his breath. 

“Pm sorry,” was all he said. “I suppose that’s 
your final verdict?” 

Praska nodded. The same tenacity, the same 
doggedness, the same deliberate finality that made 
him slow to form opinions, made him slow to 
change them. Carlos Dix was rehabilitated in his 
estimation . . . and instead of that fact’s 

driving home harder what the lawyer had said, it 
served only to strengthen the course on which he 
had decided. Work itself had at first lured him; 
now it was work with Carlos Dix that beckoned 
him with glamour and promise. Carlos Dix 
might advise college; and yet, if he asked it, if 
if he waved college away, he thought that Carlos 
Dix would take him into his office. Twice he 
had heard the man say that he would soon have 
to get a clerk. The salary, of course, would be 
very small, but that struck the boy as of slight 

262 




NORTHFIELD TO NORTHFIELD 


moment. He would read law with a zealousness 
that would win approval. In the glow of Carlos 
Dix’s companionship he would drink in legal 
knowledge. Eventually he would pass his bar 
examinations. Other men had done it who had 
not passed years at college—Lincoln, for instance. 
In the rapture of the bright pictures his fancy 
created, the State University became something 
hazy and remote. 

He welcomed the start of final examinations. 
They marked the last step that need be taken be¬ 
fore he progressed to the great outside world. 
Hammond and Littlefield moaned over the “stiff¬ 
ness” of the papers, Perry King breezily set them 
down as “easy stuff,” but Praska slowly plowed 
his way through them prepared to do the best he 
could. Thursday afternoon the ordeal was over. 
He left the school and debated on the sidewalk 
whether to go down at once and ask Carlos Dix 
about that job. In the end he decided to wait 
until the examination marks were announced. If he 
stood as high as he hoped it would be that much 
easier to induce the lawyer to take him in. 

Next day, with examinations over, the school 
fell into a backwater of relaxation. Praska spent 
a good part of the morning reading “Moby Dick,” 
Herman Melville’s absorbing story of the sea 
and the search for the white whale. At noon, as 

263 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


he prepared to go to the cafeteria, he noticed a 
new leather traveling bag under Mr. Banning’s 
desk. 

“All ready for vacation, sir?” he asked. 

The teacher smiled. “A different sort of vaca¬ 
tion; no bass fishing this time. I’m going down 
to New York for a summer extension course at 
Columbia University—a series of lectures on 
world politics. You know, George, there was a 
time when a man could be born in the back woods, 
study law in a prairie law office, and rise to a 
place of power. Lincoln did it. But that day is 
past. For one thing, what affects Europe affects 
us. Steam and electricity, submarines and aero¬ 
planes, have made the Atlantic Ocean little more 
than a mighty river. Some people will want us 
to try some of Europe’s theories. If they’re 
sound we want them. But we can’t afford to 
make mistakes, because mistakes in government 
are too costly. I’m going down to New York to 
get a line on questions that every real American 
ought to know something about.” 

“I see, sir,” said the boy, soberly. 

In the cafeteria he ate with a preoccupied air. 
Mr. Banning, with all his knowledge, going down 
to New York to study problems that America 
might some day have to face! The wonder of it 
grew upon him—and then the wonder ceased. 

264 





NORTHFIELD TO NORTHFIELD 


He knew the man ... If one wanted to 
exercise wisely and carefully his duties as a citi¬ 
zen- He forgot his food and stared with un¬ 

seeing eyes across the room. 

By and by he left the cafeteria. On the stairs 
an excited figure halted him. 

“Something’s happening upstairs about the 
fund,” Perry King said hoarsely. 

“Fund?” Praska’s mind was on something else. 

“You know—the fund that the graduates are 
raising. There’s a meeting of some kind in the 
principal’s office. Carlos Dix is there, and Mr. 
Ballinger, and a dozen others. Gosh! I’d like to 
know what’s going on to-day.” 

Praska wasn’t interested even in that. Two 
words ran through his mind—carefully and 
wisely. He went upstairs without taking thought 
of where his steps led him. Suddenly voices roused 
him from his abstraction. He was outside Mr. 
Rue’s office. He saw Carlos Dix; and at that 
moment the lawyer saw him and came out to the 
hall. 

“George,” the man demanded abruptly, “how; 
about that talk we had? Have you changed your 
mind?” 

“Yes, sir.” The boy spoke slowly. “I’m go¬ 
ing to the State University. If I don’t go I can’t 
be the kind of American citizen I want to be.” 

265 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


i ■■ " ■ 

There was a moment of silence. Then; 

“I’m glad you saw it in time,” Carlos Dix said. 
The men in the principal’s office were beginning 
to find seats around a long library table. Abruptly 
the lawyer walked into the meeting room and 
closed the door behind him. 

The graduation exercises were held on one of 
those hot, hushed humid nights that sometimes 
find their way into the last week of June. The 
ushers, tip-toeing up and down the side aisles, 
had long ago opened the auditorium windows to 
their full. In front of the platform the school 
orchestra waited patiently for the signal that 
would sound the school hymn as an exit march. 
On the stage, near the center of the first row of 
graduates, Praska held his diploma in one hand 
and tried hard not to screw up his face as a mad¬ 
dening, tickling drop of perspiration rolled slowly 
down his nose. 

“I feel,” Perry King groaned, sotto voice, “as 
though my collar were melting and running down 
my back. Mr. Rue is going to speak. I guess 
this is the end.” 

But the principal merely introduced Carlos Dix 
who, he said, would speak for “the Northfield 
Alumni.” 

“The influence of a good school,” began Carlos 
Dix, plunging directly into what he had to say, 

266 




NORTHFIELD TO NORTHFIELD 


r I".. 11 . ■ .I .. . ' ' 

“does not end with graduation. Northfield has 
written something unforgettable into the lives of 
those of us who have gone forth from its doors— 
something that brings us back with a keen desire 
to serve and to inspire service.” 

He paused for a moment. Praska drew a quick, 
short breath and leaned forward. 

Carlos Dix went on, speaking with a simple 
boyishness that somehow carried him close to his 
listeners: “I haven’t felt so important,” he said, 
with a sudden flashing grin, “since my brothers 
used to send me to call the other kids to come 
and help. The Northfield Alumni have sent me 
to-night to call to the students of Northfield to 
come and help-out in the world. 

“To pave the way for your coming, we offer 
you the newly established Northfield Alumni 
Public Service Scholarship. Every graduate in 
town and all whom we could reach out of town 
have contributed to the fund that makes this 
scholarship possible—and they have contributed 
gladly. In some cases, the young fellow who gave 
five dollars was giving far more than the older 
man who gave five hundred, but they both wanted 
to give.” 

Again Praska drew a quick, short breath. This 
was Northfield spirit. 

“There is $7,000 in this scholarship fund,” Car- 

267 




THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


1 ' . ' ' ' "" 

«-—— - 1 ~ " “ 

los D ix continued. “It will yield between four 
and five hundred dollars a year. And that in¬ 
come is to go annually toward paying the fresh¬ 
man college expenses of that Northfield graduate 
of the current year who has given the most out¬ 
standing service to his school community—who 
has proved himself Northfield’s cleanest, hard¬ 
est-fighting politician. 

“The fellow, or girl, who has been such a poli¬ 
tician in school is the one most likely to develop 
into that kind in later life. That is why each 
year we shall start such a graduate in training. 
America needs politicians of the right type.” 

A hush had fallen on the crowd. Perry’s hand 
came over and clutched Praska’s arm. 

“Remember that the Public Service Scholar¬ 
ship is a permanent institution,” Carlos Dix was 
saying. “The announcement of the winner is to 
become a regular part of the commencement pro¬ 
gram. This year, of course, only the faculty has 
known about it in advance,” he interpolated apolo¬ 
getically. “We alumni are rather like kids; we 
wanted the fun of springing it on the students to¬ 
night.” 

A ripple of laughter ran over the audience, and 
there was a spatter of hand-clapping. 

Carlos Dix stopped it with a quick gesture. 
“One minute!” he said. “I have been instructed 

268 






! NORTHFIELD TO NORTHFIELD 


to announce the name of the member of this grad¬ 
uating class who has won the scholarship for the 
coming college year.” 

Again the hush fell. Praska’s brain was racing. 
It would be Perry, of course. Perry, by his work 
on the Safety Committee, had ended the laxness 
about open lockers. Perry, by his courage, had 
faced down Rig Jim Fry’s rowdyism and had 
ended disorders in the corridors. Yes, it would 
be Perry. 

Carlos Dix’s voice rang out clear in the silence 
as he turned to the class on the platform: “The 
Alumni Committee on Scholarship, assisted con¬ 
sciously by the faculty and unconsciously by many 
different members of the student body, has made 
a careful study of the service that you have given 
to Northfield. We have come to the unanimous 
decision that the Northfield Alumni Public Serv¬ 
ice Scholarship should go this year to one whom 
all declare Northfield’s cleanest, hardest-fighting 
politician—George Praska.” 

A storm of applause broke out. Praska shook 
himself. His mind had slipped. He was sure 

of that. He was imagining things. He-And 

then Perry’s elbow was in his ribs. 

“It’s you, you nut,” Perry was saying hoarsely. 
“Wake up. Who else would get it but you?” He 
saw Carlos Dix coming across the stage toward 

269 






THE SPIRIT OF THE LEADER 


him with outstretched hand, the first to offer him 
congratulations. 

The next five minutes were the minutes of a 
dream. Never thereafter was he able to tell all 
that happened or what he did. One picture alone 
survived in his memory: his father’s face back 
there in the audience flushed and working with 
emotion, and his mother smiling and wiping her 
eyes. 

And then he was off the stage, with Perry 
pounding his back, and Bristow clinging to one 
arm, and Betty Lawton telling him breathlessly 
how glad she was. One by one, after a time, the 
class departed and the clamor died away. There 
was opportunity for a quiet moment with Mr. 
Rue. 

“Many men have gone out from Northfield,” 
the principal said, “but none has left here marked 
with greater promise. Live up to it, my boy; 
live up to it.” 

“I’ll try to,” Praska said humbly. He went to 
the cloakroom. Mr. Banning and Carlos Dix 
stood there talking. 

“You had a majority of the committee with 
you from the start,” the lawyer told him. “A 
few held off. They thought that your attitude 
toward college discounted much that you had 
done. When I informed them you had decided 

270 





NORTHFIELD TO NORTHFIELD 

r-" 

to work through the State University because 
you thought good citizenship demanded it, they 
all came over to you at once. Have you any) 
plan—got any idea as to what you’d like to be?” 

“I’m going to study law.” 

“Will you come into my office when you’re 
ready?” 

“Yes, sir. I intended to ask you to take me in.” 
He reached for his coat. Mr. Banning’s voice 
halted him. 

“George, how did you come to change your 
mind about college?” 

“You changed it for me.” 

“I? I thought I had failed in that.” 

“I guess everybody failed for a while. But 
when you told me why you were going to New 
York this summer, I began to see things straight. 
If all the education you had would not make you 
the kind of American you want to be, then a high 
school course would not make me the kind I want 
to be.” 

A spark, a flame, leaped to Mr. Banning’s 
eyes. Some day, in the future, the boy would 
come to understand it. He would know it for 
the joy of the dreamer who had made another 
see the dream—the rapture of the apostle who 
had led a human soul to the light. 


THE END 


( 1 ) 








BY WILLIAM HEYLIGER 


Boy Scout Stories 

Don Strong of the Wolf Patrol 

Don Strong doesn’t believe in the Boy Scout movement. How 
he becomes a member and an enthusiast and how he strives to live 
up to the laws of the Scouts, make this tale one of the best Mr. 
Heyliger has ever written. 

Don Strong, Patrol Leader 

Don Strong has the never-say-quit spirit of the best scouts and 
when his patrol seems to be on the point of disaster because of one 
unloyal member, he settles matters in a quick fashion and wins over 
the untrue comrade. 

Fairview High School Stories 

County Pennant 

Schuyler Arch is continually praising the rival team and his Cap¬ 
tain decides to make a loyal player of him at any cost. 


Captain Fair and Square 

Buddy Jones resigns when the Captain of the High School nine 
refuses to sign a pledge for clean athletics. How the team nearly 
goes under and how the day is saved will thrill you from start to 
finish. 

Fighting for Fairview 

The Captain of the Fairview nine resigns because he thinks that 
the team needs a new leader. His sacrifice is the cause of great 
happenings and the story proves that the honest fellow always wins. 


These Are Appleton Books 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, New York 







BY WILLIAM HEYLIGER 


St. Mary’s Series 

Bartley, Freshman Pitcher 

Bartley, unknown freshman, is given preference over Kennedy, 
the school’s star pitcher, and the story shows how Kennedy’s hatred 
breaks down before the better impulse of loyalty to the school. 

Bucking the Line 

In this book Bartley becomes editor of the college paper. 
Written criticism of the coach gets him into trouble. The story 
tells how the excitement is straightened out. 

Captain of the Nine 

Bartley, who is elected captain of the nine in this story, has 
trouble with a defeated candidate for the position, but before 
the story ends, Bartley gives the other fellow good reason to get 
over his grudge. 

Strike Three 

Another story of St. Mary’s school, with the popular Bartley 
as hero. The title will tell boy readers what the chief interest of 
the book is. 

Against Odds 

“Slats” Corridon is the butt of the boys’ jokes, but Bartley 
takes an interest in him. When the baseball season opens, “Slats” 
proves to be a find, and shows what a plucky boy can do in the 
face of opposition. 

Off Side 

Young Price persuades his uncle to let him give up school and 
go into business. After many exciting months as a newspaper 
reporter, he discovers his real talent and then he starts to work in a 
big way. 


These Are Appleton Books 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, New York 








FICTION FOR MEN AND BOYS 


SCOTT BURTON, LOGGER 

By EDWARD G. CHEYNEY, author of “Scott Burton, 
Forester/' etc. 

Exciting experiences in a clash between old and new 
logging methods in the New Hampshire woods. 

THE MYSTERY OF THE ERIK 

By FITZHUGH GREEN, author of “Arctic Duty/' etc. 

An eventful voyage to the Arctic, with many interest¬ 
ing experiences of Arctic life, a plot on shipboard and 
a race to civilization. 

JIM MASON, BACKWOODSMAN 

By ELMER RUSSELL GREGOR, author of “Three 
Sioux Scouts,” etc. 

A story of frontiersmen and Indians, and of Sir Wil¬ 
liam Johnson’s great services in the Mohawk Valley. 

CAP FALLON, FIRE FIGHTER 

By JOHN MOROSO, author of “The People Against 
Nancy Preston,” etc. 

Gallant exploits of the New York City Fire Depart¬ 
ment, told to a group of boys, who take to heart the 
spirit of the stories. 

NED BEALS WORKS HIS WAY 

By EARL REED SILVERS, author of “Ned Beals, 
Freshman,” etc. 

A story of college spirit, college activities, and a 
young fellow who works his way. A first class college 
story from a fresh angle. 

THE DEEP SEA HUNTERS in the FROZEN 

SEAS By A. HYATT VERRILL, author of 
“The Deep Sea Hunters,” etc. 

A cruise in northern waters after oil and furs, with 
adventures in whaling and sealing and life among the 
Eskimo. 

THE FLAMING CROSS of SANTA MARTA 

Hidden treasure, adventure and battle in the days 
when Sir Francis Drake sailed to the Spanish Main. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
New York London 









ESTABLISHED FAVORITES FOR BOYS 


THE YOUNG TRAILERS SERIES 
By Joseph A. Altsheler 

Using the stirring facts of American history and the 
romance of real frontier life, Joseph Altsheler writes 
in the Young Trailers Series (eight books which may 
be read independently), tales of thrilling, daring and 
actual achievement. 

THE HALF BACK 
By Ralph Henry Barbour 
In this, the most famous of all his famous stories 
of school and college life and sport, Barbour com¬ 
bines the sound ideals and the exciting incidents which 
have made him a favorite. 

LITTLE SMOKE 
By W. O. Stoddard 

There is always keen interest in an Indian story. 
Little Smoke gives a real picture of Indian life, and 
at a stirring and significant time—that of the Custer 
Massacre. 

HIGH BENTON 
By William Heyliger 

“School’s too slow, I want to go to work,” said Steve 
Benton. What he learned by following that course 
is told in an unusual and splendid story—a real novel 
for boys. 

THE SUBSTITUTE 
By Walter Camp 

The great Yale athletic authority puts all his knowl¬ 
edge of football, of college and the men who go there, 
and all his magnificent sportsmanship in this rousing 
story. 

LITTLE JARVIS 
By Molly Elliott Seawell 
A little known but truly heroic incident from the 
records of our navy. A true story of the sea, of war¬ 
ships, of battle, and of glorious devotion to duty. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
New York London 

























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